


Alphabet Soup

by Lady_Kaos



Category: The Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Aladdin (Disney Movies) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Alternate Universe - Swan Princess (1994) Fusion, Alternate Universe - The Mummy Fusion, Alternate Universe - Warm Bodies Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Babies, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Fairies, Gen, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Coco (2017), Kelpies, M/M, Multi, Muses, Museums, OT3, One Shot Collection, Parenthood, Transformation, Unicorns, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 95,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Kaos/pseuds/Lady_Kaos
Summary: An alphabet challenge involving twenty-six different fandoms, all crossed or fused with your favorite OT3.Now up: In a world long ruled by vampires, the human race is on the verge of extinction. Before the clock runs out, vampire scientists work to perfect a blood substitute. Until then surviving humans are hunted ruthlessly to make up for the supply shortage.Tulio doesn't care about those greater struggles. These nights he and Miguel have difficulty with basic survival. They're two insignificant bloodsuckers with the bad luck to run into a human fugitive.Chel never forgets the two brave idiots that once saved her life. She never expects to see them again. Or that they carry the key to something better than survival - a cure.Or: a fusion with Daybreakers.
Relationships: Chel/Miguel/Tulio (Road to El Dorado), Chel/Tulio (Road to El Dorado), Miguel/Tulio (Road to El Dorado)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 29





	1. Foreward

I always wanted to do some variant of the alphabet challenge. Because I cannot stop spitting out stories for the Road to El Dorado and keep rehashing my favorite OT3 in a thousand different settings, I might as well utilize it here. Yes, that means _twenty-six_ different fandoms. Some will be fusions. Some will be crossovers. There will be a strong undercurrent if not overt OT3 for most settings, though some may wind up a lot more Miguel/Tulio, Chel/Tulio, or Chel/Miguel.

I have a rough idea for most of the fandoms I want to do. Because this is supposed to be a break for my muse from larger projects, essentially anything goes. You might get a full-fledged one shot for some chapters. Others might just be fluff or slice of life in the setting. They will not be posted in alphabetical order, because I'm finishing each one as it takes me by the hands and possesses me.

I also don't want to be one of those people that clog up a thousand different fandoms with one story, or drown The Road to El Dorado fandom with twenty six new stories. I've already clogged this place up plenty. Since the common factor these stories all share is the Road to El Dorado and its glorious characters, that's the only fandom I'm tagging. Every crossover or fusion I post here gets listed down below. All should hopefully stand alone without knowledge of the crossed fandom being needed. The list below shall be updated as each chapter gets finished.

**An OT3 Alphabet**

**A is for Aladdin  
**

**C is for Coco  
**

**D is for Daybreakers**

**E is for Earth Girls Are Easy**

**F is for FernGully: The Last Rainforest**

**K is for (The) Kelpie and the Girl**

**L is for Ladyhawke  
**

**M is for (The) Mummy  
**

**N is for Night at the Museum**

**P is for Prince Lindworm**

**Q is for Quints**

**S is for (The) Swan Princess**

**U is for (The) Unicorn's Secret**

**W is for Warm Bodies**

**X is for Xanadu**


	2. The (M)ummy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intrepid librarian, a treasure-seeking brother, a very exasperated horse, and a thief dragged back to the cursed city that should stay swallowed by a jungle.
> 
> And the TWO mummies buried there.
> 
> Fortunately for them, they dig up the right one.
> 
> Or: a fusion with The Mummy (1999).

Chel can read and write Maya, decipher glyphic scripts and logograms, and is the only person within a thousand miles that knows how to properly code and catalogue this wonderfully stupid library of dusty old books. As Dr. Baez's eye twitches neurotically at a room of overturned shelves, Chel promptly reminds him of this before apologizing for the accident. The argument that maybe all these shelves of priceless historical records should have been spaced a bit further apart is an argument for another day.

Not that any of that matters.

"Who needs smart women?" Dr. Baez derides. "I put up with you, senorita, because your mother and father were our finest patrons, God rest their souls. Now straighten up this mess!"

As the fussy old man son of a bitch storms out, Chel glares daggers at his back. Her scathing retort on where exactly Dr. Baez can shove his mess goes unspoken. This museum is her parents' third child, their dream to preserve. It's as close as she'll ever get to her own dream. A petty spite isn't worth all the years it took to get here.

Then again, this museum is quiet and eerie, filled with all the lovely sorts of artifacts thieves too lazy to go grave-robbing themselves love to plunder. And those feet shuffling across a nearby gallery are too big for any rat.

Chel glances around. Her weapon of choice is a weighty manuscript that can brain even the thickest thief. The museum doesn't need _that_ many demonizing accounts by the colonial era priests.

"Alberto?" she calls, because a colleague should have the dignity to answer and a burglar the common sense to run. "Mauricio? Berto?"

She creeps through desolate stacks. The gallery beyond is closed for the day, dark and lit only by faint bulbs at its entrances. The skulls and fearsome faces leering from the Aztec steles and statues do not help her mood any. Nor do those foot, shuffling far too close for comfort. Chel brandishes her book, squinting at the shadow that has just darted out of her line of vision.

"If you're fucking with my mummies again, big brother, you're going to join to them."

Egyptian mummies are embalmed, displaying laying down in their grand sarcophagi. Aztec mummies are seated, bound in cloth to hold them upright, and naturally desiccated from the dry climate to the north. One yelps and stumbles up, revealing himself to be no mummy at all.

"I wasn't, honest! I was just..."

Chel wrinkles her nose at the smell of alcohol, which pares just great with mummy dust.And the mold upon those mummies brought into too humid a climate. "Just showing them a good time?"

Javi grins drunkenly at her. "Yep!"

She plucks a cigar from one poor mummy's death mask. "Have you no respect for the dead?"

Javi wraps a conspiratorial arm around the closest corpse. "Right now I'd rather wish to join them."

Chel slaps him across the shoulder. He yelps and pulls away. "Come and be the star exhibit for all I care. Just don't ruin my career when you do."

"I'll have you know, dear sweet baby sister, that at this moment my career is on a high note." Plopping right down on an Olmec head, Javi starts rooting around his jacket. Chel rolls her eyes at his gormless grin. "Find of the century, right here!"

"Uh huh," she sighs. Yet another worthless trinket or poorly made knockoff to try pawning off on the curator.

Her brother triumphantly pulls out something that shines in the faint light. Chel snatches it. It is weighty in her hand, the sort of craftsmanship intended to stand the test of time. She squints suspiciously at her brother.

"Where did you get this?"

He grins impishly. "On a dig, down in Bacatá."

_Sure_ he did.

Striding back into the light with Javi at her heels, Chel inspects the artifact closely. Its gold plating is genuine, not just paint that flakes off when she takes a nail to it. The... box is small, octagonal shaped. Embossed on its lid are two men astride a Feathered Serpent. Beneath them a woman kneels in reverence. Surrounding the image is glyphic script.

"My whole life I've never found anything." Javi grips desperately at her shoulder. "Chel, tell me I found something."

Chel's fingers rove and investigate. Slats in the box move as she fidgets with them, proving it is more than a simple decoration. Mindlessly Chel twists and clicks, as if this is a puzzle she has solved a hundred times before. When Chel blinks, coming back to herself after a daydream, the artifact unfurls like a flower. Actually, its golden petals more resemble a sun in splendor. Folded inside is a yellowed piece of paper.

"Javier?" she whispers.

"Yes?"

"I think you have something."

* * *

In theory, the night gives them the time to prepare before meeting Dr. Baez tomorrow. Javi can sober up and put his best foot forward. Chel can clean up her catastrophe in the library and examine his artifact with enough time to prove her blossoming theory. Javi is drunk enough to crash in her bed. Chel is up most the night, checking and rechecking that half-familiar script. Once she realizes what she holds, she is too restless to sleep.

Chel meets with Dr. Baez running on pure adrenaline. The grayed curator leans comfortably in his chair, examining the box and map both through a jeweler's eyepiece. Very much a traditionalist, he relies on candlelight than the electric lights humming above. Chel hovers anxiously behind, aware she's breathing down his neck and not having the strength to pull away.

"See those glyphs there? 'Chief' and a name. Tannabok. I'm sure of it."

"Perhaps," Dr. Baez allows. "If these glyphs do indeed translate the same."

"Two questions," Javi breaks in. "Who the hell was Chief Tannabok, and was he rich?"

"Colonial history might remember him by a different name," Chel hazards. Her eyes flick to Dr. Baez, a true scholar. "Or at least the mythic figure that might have germinated from the seed of a real individual."

Dr. Baez does not question her further. Javi's own complaint withers as the curator picks up the actual map.

"I've already dated it. This map is well over four hundred years old. Most definitely precolonial. And the gylphs over there..." Chel stabs a finger to the symbols in question, inhaling deeply as she leaves relative sanity behind. "It's Manoa."

Dr. Baez freezes. Then he scoffs. "My girl dear, don't be ridiculous. We are scholars, not treasure hunters. Manoa is a myth."

Javi's eyes go wide, like Christmas had indeed come early and all the world's presents are just for him. _"The_ Manoa?"

"Yes," Chel breathes, for to her there is no denying it. "The City of Gold. Where the gods are said to have blessed Lake Parime's sacred shores with heavenly wealth."

"Right, right," Javi chimes in. "Everybody knows the story. El Dorado. Where gold was so plentiful even peasants wore it in their ears and painted themselves in it. The entire city was rigged to sink into the lake. On King Tanni's command, at the flip of a switch! And the whole place could disappear into the depths."

"All we know is that the city vanished just around the time of colonization," Chel allows, because it's one thing to believe in a city of gold and quite another to believe in a _booby-trapped_ city of gold.

Dr. Baez snorts. "As the Americans would say; all fairy-tales and hokum. A metaphor for the bottomless pit the Spaniards could never fill inside themselves."

His hand jerks too close to the candle flame. Chel's warning dies in a squeak of horror as priceless paper catches alight. Dr. Baez throws the map to the floor. Javi drops to his knees, stamping the fire out. In horror he lifts the map. One third of the trail has been singed away.

"You burned it," he breathes in horror, for his very dreams have been engulfed. "You burned off the part with the lost city!"

Dr. Baez sniffs and straightens his jacket, not regretful in the slightest. "It's all the for the best, I'm sure. Many men have wasted their lives in the foolish pursuit of El Dorado. Sir Walter Raleigh lost his reputation and his son. No one has ever found anything more than broken dreams. Most have never returned. Your parents intended far better things for you, Javier."

"You killed it," Javi whispers. It is far more than the map he speaks of.

"It was a fake." Through his glasses, Dr. Baez spears Chel with a look of paternal disapproval. "I am most especially surprised at you, Consuelo, to be so easily fooled."

The curator reaches for the box. Blood boiling, Chel snatches it back, and is almost disappointed Dr. Baez does not spontaneously combust from the heat of her glare. She settles for grabbing her big brother's hand and storming off.

* * *

When asked about the provenance of his puzzle box, Javi hesitates only a heartbeat before leading her straight to the worst prison in the city. Of course he does. Chel wrinkles her nose at the smell. It's almost as terrible as the warden himself, a portly little man named Zaragoza who less leads them across the gallows yard than he does walk beside them and do his best to stare at Chel's ass. Ugh.

"'Dig down in Bacatá,' my ass," she hisses.

Javi can't even manage a sheepish smile before he goes back to glaring at the warden. He opens his mouth to-

"Don't even think about it," she mutters murderously. "What drunk at the local shit hole did you steal it from?"

Javi's fury fades. "I picked his pocket, actually."

"Y-You f-"

Chel bites back her insult to plaster on the mild disdain Zaragoza still takes to be for the prisoners, and not for the warden, as he escorts them into the holding pen.

"What's he even in prison for?"

Zaragoza shrugs. "I did not know, so when I heard such fine company as you were coming, I asked him myself."

"And what did he say?"

Zaragoza ponders this, then leers at her. "He said... he was just looking for a good time."

The cell door bursts open, four brawny guards hauling a single man between them. They shove him into the iron bars that stand between him and his audience. Chel's fists clench at the cruelty. The prisoner himself is dressed in soiled rags and smells worst than Javi at his drunkest. His hair is a black, shaggy mess and his beard no better. Despite his unseemly appearance, his deep blue eyes cut straight through her.

"...Hello," she blurts out. What else is there to say?

Deep blue eyes drink her in. Then they flick to her brother.

"So, which one of you did I screw over? Must've been one hell of a night. Shame I can't remember it."

"...What?" Chel deadpans.

Javi huffs, scandalized. "That's my baby sister!"

"Yeah?" The prisoner glances between them. "Explains the natural good looks. Does not explain who I wound up in bed with."

Javi stammers, stunned and furious. Chel instead finds herself biting back a grin. Family needs to stick together.

Zaragoza makes a face and turns to leave. "I'll be back in a moment."

"I tremble with anticipation."

A guard clubs the prisoner's head. His face bounces off the bars. Despite the red lines now streaking him, the prisoner barely grunts, and only sends the guard a hateful snarl. Chel steps closer, leaning to his eye level.

"We found your puzzle box," she murmurs discreetly. "We want to ask about it."

"No."

"No?"

"No." The prisoner huffs a humorless laugh. "You came to ask me about Manoa."

Chel and Javi glance wildly around. Either the guards haven't heard them, or they don't know the legends enough to care. 'El Dorado' is the same that sets the imagination aflame. Despite common ignorance they still lean closer to the bars, where their whispers should be list among the clamor of the yard.

"How do you know the box pertains to Manoa?"

"Because that's where I found it," the prisoner drawls. "I was there."

Chel's eyes widen. Javi's slant suspiciously.

"How do we know that's not a load of horse shit?"

The prisoner squints at Javi. Recognition sparks in his blue eyes. "I do know you, don't I? And not from anywhere pleasant."

"Um..."

A dirtied fist flies through the bars, striking Javi square in the jaw. Down he drops, even as the guard clubs his assailant against the bars again. Chel ignores her spluttering brother to kneel in the prisoner's face, heedless of the stink or the blood now trailing from his forehead.

"You were actually in Manoa?"

"I... I just decked your brother."

Chel shrugs. "I know my brother."

The prisoner's beard twitches. Huh. There might be an almost smile hidden under there. "Yeah, I was there."

"You swear?"

"Every damn day."

_"And?"_

"And I was there, all right. Tanni's place. The lost city that should've stayed lost."

Darkness flickers across his face. Chel is too spellbound to not push further. Any minute details might reveal the farce or confirm the truth. "What did you find? What did you see?"

"I found rocks. I saw death."

Zaragoza enters, an impish glint in his eyes. Chel's heart hammers.

"Could you tell me how to get there? The exact location?"

"Want to know?"

"Yes," she breathes.

_"Really_ want to know!"

"Yes!" It's barely a whisper now.

Rough, whiskered lips seize against her own. When he pulls away, his eyes blaze with wide, frantic fire. "Then get me the hell out of here!"

Chel gapes as the prisoner is once more struck against the head. This time the guards seize him, tearing him out of the holding cell. She stares after the nastiest, most passionate kiss of her entire life. Then she turns to the warden. "Where are they taking him?"

"To be hanged."

Chel's jaw drops in horror. Zaragoza smirks with rooted teeth.

"Apparently he had a _very_ good time."

Chel stalks her way forward with the warden to a balcony above the yard, Xavi protectively at her heels. Below hundreds of filthy prisoners whoop and cat-call as _her_ filthy prisoner stands upon the gallows, a rope cinched tight around his neck. How many men has Zaragoza watched be hanged up here, watched their necks break and the light leave their eyes?

Sensing a spectator, the prisoners turn upward, eyeing Chel's curves like hungry dogs. Her withering stare causes more than one to cough and avert their eyes. Zaragoza steps between her and the balcony's edge as if to hide her from prying eyes.

"This is no place for such a young and sensitive woman, senorita."

"Part of my daily job responsibilities are looking after sacrificial weapons and scraping mold off desiccated corpses," she deadpans.

Zaragoza blinks and is bewildered enough to just sit down and enjoy the gruesome show. Chel plops right down beside him. The prisoner's eyebrows fly into his hairline.

"One hundred pesos to save this man's life."

Zaragoza eyes her shrewdly. "I would give one hundred pounds just to see him hang."

"Two hundred pesos."

"Proceed," Zaragoza orders the hangman.

"Three hundred pesos!"

The prisoner hangs on to every word. So do his spectators. Even the rowdiest prisoner has fallen silent, staring up in awe at Chel's fierce defense of a total lecherous stranger. Zaragoza's dark eyes sweep over the crowd before fixating on the condemned man himself.

"Any last words, mongrel?"

"Yeah. I'd like you to listen to the nice lady and let me go."

The hangman's hand inches for the trapdoor's lever. Chel breaks into a cold sweat.

"FIVE HUNDRED PESOS!"

One greasy palm sidles over her leg. "And what else?"

"Six hundred pesos," Javi says from over their shoulders, squeezing his head between them. "And maybe she lets you keep your manhood."

Chel smiles sweetly as her own hand finds Zaragoza's leg, nails sinking in like claws inches from their preferred target. When he tries to shake her off, her grip only tightens.

Zaragoza realizes too late he gambled too high. Pride wars against fear and against greed. Six hundred pesos, a pretty young woman near pleading at his side. From up here the prisoners do not realize his balls are in a literal vise. Is petty spite worth that all?

"Cut him loose," he calls out at last, voice squeaking only a tad too high.

The hangman swings his sword. Because he is a poor sport, he still flips the lever. The prisoner squeals in mortal as he plummets. His rope severed, he just falls to the ground instead of to his death. The crowd hollers and cheers.

Gasping for breath and still shaking, the prisoner's eyes find hers. Chel grins and waves back.

Only later, as they're hashing out the details of their bargain, do they learn each other's names. The siblings introduce themselves properly as Chel and Javi Carnero, because the guy they robbed and then saved deserve what they use with each other. Their guide in turn introduces himself as Tulio Olguin. Chel shivers as she realizes how close she came to watching this man die without even knowing what to call him.

* * *

To reach the jungle interior they gather in port for a barge up the river. Chel and Javi arrive hours early, glaring firmly at the street vendors that cluster around them like vultures.

"Do you honestly think he'll show up?" Javi grumbles.

Chel buffs her nails. "Oh, he's filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel, but we saved his life. He's bound to pay us back for that. Or we'll _find_ him."

"Anyone I know?" drawls a familiar voice.

They turn. In prison Tulio had a certain rugged, desperate charm. Outside he's had the chance to shower, shave, and change his clothes. Stubble suits his long face a lot better than that scraggly beard. Oiled and tied back, she can even appreciate his long hair.

"Oh, hello," Chel manages at last, after a long time of ogling their guide.

Javi awkwardly clears his throat and offers a hand. "Incredible day for the start of an adventure, eh, Olguin?"

Tulio gingerly returns the handshake, then suspiciously feels his pockets. "Yeah, sure, absolutely incredible."

He relaxes upon discovering his wallet unmolested. Chel's fingers itch an easy target. Instead she directs her attention far more important things. "Senor Olguin, your life more than worth six hundred pesos, but my brother and I are putting down a _lot_ more for this expedition. If we're only gonna find crocodiles and mosquitoes, I'd like to know now."

Tulio's good humor slides away. He steps close, looming a scant few inches over her. Chel doesn't back away.

"Look, sweetheart, all I can tell you is that we were supposed to be scouting out oil when our commander found that crappy map. The whole damn expedition believed in it so much that without orders we marched through hundreds of miles of godforsaken jungle to find that city. Like I told you, all I saw were rocks. Everyone else was wiped out by disease and rebel soldiers." His eyes flick away from her. "I'll take your bags."

He hefts them over his shoulders and storms up the gangplank. Chel's eyes trail from his wiry arms to his taut ass.

"Yes, yes," Javi concurs. "Filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel. No redeeming qualities whatsoever."

Chel smacks him. The idiot grins through his wince.

* * *

Their cramped little cabin offers privacy. It is also a smelly, dark little closet. Chel much prefers the open air of the deck. The drunken assholes leering all around her are the usual background noise. She pays them no mind. Her eyes are only for her book. Carefully tucked into the pages is the map. She checks the glyphs against their accepted interpretations and checks them again. Dr. Baez is probably right on the translation being imperfect, because this language is not quite like the ones she knows. All the more reason to study it.

At least her idiots have found ways to entertain themselves. Both Javi and Tulio are engrossed in a poker game. Their opponents are three boisterous Americans who speak God awful Spanish. Mostly they default to English, which suits two people raised by devout scholars, and one con artist who can rob people blind in at least three tongues. Chel is confident either her brother or their guide will rob them blind. The issue is them surviving an itchy trigger finger from a drunken, bamboozled cowboy.

"What if I were wager five hundred dollars says we get to El Dorado before you?"

Chel glances sharply up from her text. Daniels, the one American unaware enough to be wearing an actual cowboy hat, grins smugly. Javi and Tulio return it with tight smiles. They both guiltily avoid her scolding stare.

"You're on, peewee," Tulio declares.

Burns, the most tolerable of the Americans, dusts and slips on his still grimy bifocals. "What makes you so confident, senor?"

"What makes you?" Tulio retorts.

Rugged Henderson spits a wad of chew at a barrel. Charming. "We got us a man who's actually been there."

Tulio's poker face slackens in faint, dawning horror. Javi just frowns in earnest confusion. "Well, isn't that-"

Chel stands, smacking him in the shoulder. Three sets of eyes abandon their cards to rove her curves. "Isn't that enough gambling away our life savings?"

Javi's shoulders slump shamefully. "Yes, sis."

He folds. So does Tulio. Javi endures sniggering Americans to nurse his drink and continue safer topics of conversation. Tulio abandons the table, joining Chel at the back of the barge. For a time they watch the drift by. Ahead the moon and stars are shrouded by thick cloud cover.

"Who is it?" she murmurs.

"Cortes." Tulio stares into the depths. "Of course it's fucking Cortes. The man marched us off to die and then he dragged himself out alone."

"Cortes? As in..."

"Yep. Hernan Cortes." Chel snorts so loudly even Tulio cracks a wan smile. "I know, right? What the hell were his parents thinking?" He chucks an empty beer bottle into the river. "Hell of a reputation to live up to. And he tried it anyway. Still is, apparently." His eyes slant back to her. "There's something out there, you know, under all the vines."

"I'm hoping to find a certain artifact under there," she concedes. "My brother thinks there's treasure. What do you know is out there?"

Blue eyes stare straight back. "Evil. Something the Manoans believed not even their gods could kill."

"A god himself, actually. You can't kill that what's immortal." Chel tries and fails at a grin. "Whatever precisely happened to Manoa, I do believe the Book of the Sun is buried out there. It's one of the most famous books in history, maybe even one written by some distant ancestor of mine. It's what me so passionate in history to begin with, gave me a link to myself like nothing else could."

Tulio arches a brow. "And the fact they say it's made out of pure gold doesn't matter in the slightest, right?"

Chel beams. "You know your history."

"I know my treasure."

At his reserved tone, Chel turns to leave. She hesitates for only a moment. "By the way, why did you kiss me that day?"

Tulio shrugs her way. "I was about to be hanged. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Dark eyes rove up and down his form. Chel bites her lip. "If you have any other good ideas, you know where to find me."

She winks at his flabbergast, sashaying away.

Not that anything comes of her invitation. A burning barge, masked assassins, and a firefight giddily returned by the Americans ensue first. The map is lost to the flames. Then again, so is the hook-handed man that tried to slice her throat open. Tulio promises the map is all up in his mind before hurling her overboard.

The water is a churning mass of smoke, swearing sailors, and panicking animals. Before Chel can swim for shore, she spots a gray stallion thrashing in rope. Despite his thrashing hooves and blind panic, she dives to untie him. She is not alone. Nimble fingers work at the knots she can't reach, before hacking the ones left with a gleaming knife.

With the stallion free, Chel and Tulio blindly swim after him. They stagger ashore not long after he does.

"Javi?" she calls.

Her big brother wades out of the water, triumphantly waving the puzzle box. "Right here, sis!"

Squinting across the river, Chel realizes most of the crew made it up the other side. Towering a good foot above the Americans is a broad-shouldered behemoth roaring orders she can hear all the way out here. "Cortes?"

Tulio groans. "Cortes."

"Looks to me he got all the horses," Javi notes.

Tulio cackles. "Looks to me like he's on the wrong side of the river."

"We have a horse!" Chel protests, gesturing to the drenched stallion in question.

_"A_ horse," her brother corrects.

_"Our_ horse."

The horse vehemently shakes himself free of excess water. His dark eyes appraise the three people before him, before he snorts and considers the distance to swim. Cortes' booming voice has his ears folding back. Then he considers the dark jungle instead.

"Altivo," Chel dubs him, and that's that.

* * *

Manoa lies beyond a roaring water and dark, winding cavern. Tulio confidently guides them down a single passage out of the dozens that branch out. A few times Javi tries asking how clear his memories actually are, for in the corners linger the bones of adventurers not so fortunate. Chel shushes him. Tulio plods forward with the slow, certain steps of a condemned man marching to the gallows. He knows the way like any mortal knows they are one day doomed to die.

Eventually and inevitably, they pass out of the dank darkness and into a verdant valley surrounding a crystal blue lake. After hours shut away, the late afternoon light sears like fire.

Altivo takes one sniff of the air and tries to bolt. He tugs back when Javi and Tulio try to rein him in. With Chel holding his bridle, he only simmers.

Squinting into the waters, Chel and Javi gasp at rainbow-scaled fish larger than most fishing boats, at giant turtles they first mistook for floating islands. Beyond the wildlife the lake flows into stone canals that are clearly artificial. The paved roads underfoot are choked by vines. Many buildings have collapsed, overtaken by trees and time's relentless march. Yet a few green mountains still loom, those that once must have been great temples.

Chel's gaze slides past them. They can be explored later. Her eyes are only for one massive stele, still whole and untouched by vines. A woman kneels in supplication, offering up tribute to the Feathered Serpent and the smiling gods astride him.

Before they can get closer, heavy movement makes them pause. Altivo freezes, nostrils flaring. Chel and Tulio raise pistols. Javi levels a rifle intended for jaguars and crocodiles.

Rushing out from the ruins, the Americans brandish their own weapons.

After a long moment, Chel's group and the three Americans burst out laughing at their panic, lowering their weapons. A heartbeat passes. Up the guns come again. No one came out to Manoa to make friends.

"You scared the bejeezus out of us, Oguilo," Henderson says with a tight smile.

Tulio's pistol never wavers. "Likewise."

Daniels smirks sharply. "This here is our statue... amigo."

From the shadows stalks Cortes, face like stone. Behind him is Dr. Chamberlain, the expedition's British scholar, and five diggers. All train their guns on Javi, who holds the largest weapon among them.

"Oguilo," rumbles Cortes. "Step aside."

Tulio's eyes consider three guns against ten. He cocks his pistol. "I've had worse odds."

"Yeah," Javi murmurs, soft but resolute. "Me too."

Tulio spares him a sideways glance. Cortes cocks his rifle, never wavering. The tension thickens. Before they can all choke on it, Chel glances down and weighs another set odds. With a deep exhale she tucks her pistol away. Then she gently takes Javi and Tulio's wrists, lowering them both.

"Let's behave, boys. If we're going to play together we've gotta learn to share."

Gently but firmly, Chel tugs her idiots away. They glare daggers at the men behind them but obediently follow. Slowly lowering their weapons, the Americans once more tempt fate by laughing like baboons. Dr. Chamberlain ignores them to start poring over the stele's glyphics.

"That thing is booby-trapped, isn't it?" Tulio mutters once they're out of earshot.

"Most definitely." Chel sighs. "And for good reason. According to scholars the Book of the Sun should be buried right at its base."

"The book made out of solid gold?" Javi squawks. "Then why-"

Chel pinches his cheek. "Think smarter, big brother, not harder."

The largest ruin in Manoa was once a temple devoted to the Dual Gods. Grand processions strode right up the temple steps. Chel instead leads her boys to the nondescript back entrance utilized by servants and acolytes, those not worth disrupting the sacred view. Instead of heading upstairs she continues into the catacombs beyond. They stop only to kindle torches.

Altivo is left behind at the entrance. The stallion, already munching on a wild tree of golden apples, doesn't mind in the slightest.

"What _is_ this place?"

"Servants' tunnels, essentially." Chel scoffs. "You know, the people expected to clean up after the high priests and the sacrifices without ever being seen." She holds a torch up to the walls, squinting at the text there. "According to these guidelines, we should pass right under the stele."

Tulio whistles. "Impressive."

Javi eyes her warily. "Why do I feel like this is not your first time doing this?"

Chel tweaks his nose. "Growing up, some of us read our adventure novels with actual _imagination."_

"That's one word for it," her brother mutters.

"Yeah," Tulio sighs.

* * *

Many hours of sledgehammering and chiselling later, the ceiling gives out.

Javi dives for the wall. Tulio squeals. Chel barely pulls him out of the way before a good ton of solid stone comes smashing down. Dust flies. After a good minute of hacking up their lungs and wiping their eyes, all three squint into the dissipating dust cloud.

_"That's_ where they're keeping the book?"

Chel's gaze is immediately riveted to the central image on the lid. Man and beast are locked in mortal combat. The man is man on his back, feet holding up a jaguar's belly and hands around its neck. In turn the great cat's jaws are about to sink down upon his face, claws gouging into his arms. It's impossible to say who is winning when each can so easily kill the other.

"No," Chel murmurs faintly. "It looks like... It looks like a sarcophagus."

"Sis," Javi croaks back. "That's an Egyptian thing."

"And maybe a Manoan tradition too," she points out. "They were their own people."

Tulio, less versed in indigenous burial practices, splutters for a very different reason. "W-Why would they bury somebody _in the ceiling?"_

"They didn't." Chel brushes a hand over the man, bearded like one of the Dual Gods always is. "They buried him at the foot of the stele of the Dual Gods. He was someone of great importance." She raps a hand against his solid stone casing. "So important they didn't want anything to happen to him."

Chel carefully brushes away centuries' worth of dust. Her boys wait breathlessly. Then they start to fidget as she checks the inscription, again and again.

"Well?" Javi strums his fingers against the lid. "Who is it?"

"Mixchel, as far as I can tell." Those two glyphs are straightforward enough. Chel stares at the symbol before it. " _Lord_ Mixchel."

"Just lord?" Javi presses. "So it's not King Tanni? Or Chief Tannabok or whatever his name is?"

"No," she creaks out.

Tulio frowns. "If these people had a royal line, how come a lord got such prime real estate?"

"Because every time I've seen that glyph before, it means _god."_

Javi's hand jerks away from the sarcophagus. Tulio arches an intrigued brow, running a hand down the grimy lower lid. "God, huh? What good times he must've had." He dusts off a moon and sun, though the sun is more deeply carved than the other images. "This thing is solid stone, right?"

Suddenly queasy, Chel's stare drifts to the fighting deities. Which one is supposed to be Lord Mixchel? "Yep."

Javi's face twists. "Who's ever in here sure wasn't getting out."

"No kidding," Tulio huffs. "Without a key it'll take a month to crack this thing."

"A key!" Chel spouts, as one mystery at last becomes clear. "That's it! That's what he was talking about!"

She jumps up, rooting through the pack still strapped to her brother's back.

"Who?" Tulio asks warily.

"The man from the barge! The one with the hook!"

"The man you _set on fire?"_

"He was trying to kill me. And blathering on about where the key was."

Chel triumphantly pulls out the puzzle box. Javi's protest that it's _his_ puzzle box falls silent before the intensity of her wide, fierce grin. Once more Chel opens the lid. The sunburst's eight points are a perfect match for the coffin's indentation.

"Grave goods, right?" Javi licks his lips. "Can't send a god into the next world without the proper tribute."

Chel's response by a faint, ominous _boom_ from above. As one they glance to each other, grab their weapons, and rush for the surface.

Maybe it's the creepy atmosphere, but Chel feels a presence staring holes into her back. When she wildly glance back, there is only the sarcophagus.

* * *

Salt acid. Pressurized salt acid. Three innocent diggers killed by a precolonial booby-trap. Their blood rests on Dr. Chamberlain's hands. He had recognized the active trap and stopped his benefactors from killing themselves in their haste to reach the treasure. Then he had sacrificed three innocent men to get his gold, because God forbid he waste time disarming the trap.

That same night, men in dark greens and browns rush out of the night to shower the American camp in gunfire. When Chel and her boys rush to lend aid, Altivo snorting like a demon as his hooves lash out, they drive the raiders back without fatalities on their side. If the raiders had ever intended anything more than warning shots.

For now. 'Leave this place! Leave this place or die.' Not a lot of room for interpretation there.

Despite near getting their heads blown off, despite witnessing three men gruesomely burned to death hours before, the Americans are invigorated. Daniels is now dead convinced King Tanni's gold is somewhere under these trees. Henderson reasons only gold can drive men to such extremes. Tulio's brow furrows in clear disagreement. Yet he doesn't try convincing them otherwise. It's not worth the wasted breath.

Instead they diffuse tensions amongst themselves by getting shit-faced drunk on a bottle of wine Javi thoughtfully salvaged from the barge. Their side survived today unscathed. They found a sarcophagus containing a self-proclaimed god. That's cause for celebration enough.

Shortly after dawn the next day, Chel awakes drooling a puddle into Tulio's shoulder. She scrambles up to find her clothes before either he or Javi regains consciousness.

As their pounding hangovers subside, Chel lead the way back down into the catacombs. The key is the lock's perfect fit. As she turns it gears moan and grind under the stone lid. With a loud hiss, the seal finally breaks. Tulio gags at the smell. Even Chel's stomach, long strengthened against even moldering mummy stench, churns from the wine. They still start heaving against the lid, budging it back inch by agonizing inch.

"Some big brother you are," Chel huffs. "You should've spotted me!"

"I don't even remember being there!" Javi protests.

"Neither do I, thank you."

Tulio looks up from the lid with hurt puppy eyes. "You don't?"

Chel thinks back to that dizzy, blissful haze. "Well... some of the details could be clearer."

"Please give each other bedroom eyes anywhere else but over the dead guy," Javi groans.

Chel's retort is drowned out by the stone lid smashing against the ground. They groan, clutching at their ringing heads. Then Tulio peers into the sarcophagus. His jaw drops in dismay. "A-Another coffin? If this is gonna be like those Russian dolls, I swear I'm gonna-"

"This is normal," Chel assures him. By the standards of a different continent, at least.

With a dubious look, Tulio helps Javi lift the true coffin out of its shell. Chel leans over it.

"Oh my God, I've dreamed about this day since I was a little girl."

"...You dream about dead guys?"

Chel shoots Tulio a look of her own, then she starts dusting off the coffin. Beneath the grime are not the typical inscriptions boasting of the diseased's accomplishments or prayers to safely see his soul into the next world. These prayers instead urge Lord Mixchel's slumber to be a restful one, an eternal one, for the day he rises will be a dreadful one indeed. Again and again, the glyphs warn there can be no death without life, that every sun shall be swallowed by the night.

"I've seen curses to ward off grave robbers, but this is..." Chel tries and fails to find the words.

Her idiots are too excited to care.

"Sucks to be him," Tulio scoffs.

"Yes, yes," Javi says. "Find of the century. Now let's see what a god looks like."

Chel glares daggers at their backs. Javi happily ignores her to stick the key into the coffin's lock, a double redundancy. The lid cracks open. They gag again. Tulio grabs at the lid, which refuses to budge. Javi leans over to help him. After an eternity the lid pops open. They all gape at what lays inside.

There is a body alright, old and desiccated. His only true garments are the moldered wrap around his hips and the brittle feather crown still gracing his head. Gold gauntlets hang loosely around his bony wrists and at the bottom of the coffin, from where the heavy gold fell away from his shriveled ears. A golden chain hangs around his neck, its sun medallion resting square above his heart. Because Manoans did nothing halfway, his entire corpse is liberally sprinkled in gold dust. Traces of it glimmer against the coffin lid.

"Huh. Guess a god goes out in style." At the wary silence from the siblings, Tulio frowns at them. "Isn't he supposed to look like that?"

Chel frowns up at the wet, loamy soil that has fallen down from the ceiling. They're right next to a lake, in one of the most humid climates on the planet. "If he was entombed in the desert, sure. Like Egyptian mummies. Even Aztec ones are naturally desiccated... by _arid_ conditions."

"Manoa could have had a tradition of mummification," Javi reasons. "And maybe the seals on his coffin were just that tight?"

Chel frown deepens into a puzzled scowl. Fantasy of unearthing a golden mummy aside, he shouldn't _be_ here. Not in a tropical jungle. Even if Manoa had sought to preserve him, water should have leaked into his stone sarcophagus long ago. There should be a waterlogged coffin and a disgusting slurry of bones inside, assuming both hadn't rotted away entirely.

Tulio squints, leaning close and squinting at dark smudges visible under the gold dust. "Did... Did they _poison_ him?"

Chel considers Lord Mixchel's calm face, still etched in peaceful repose. Under his thin layer of clothing there is no sign of a death wound. Strange, for someone who looks so young. She gingerly picks at the residue left on his teeth. "Well, they definitely drugged him."

Javi turns a sickly shade. "Are you saying there's a chance he went in there _alive?"_

Chel purses her lips. It's not as farfetched as her brother thinks. "Within our parents' lifetimes Japan outlawed a practice where monks willingly mummified themselves. Alive. Over years of strict dieting."

Tulio pales. Then he jerks a hand at what rests by the mummy's hip. "I'm guessing those Japanese monks didn't expect to come out fighting."

Carefully, Chel lifts the gilded sword. Her fingers ghost over the inscription etched into its blade.

"What does it say?"

"...'Death is only the beginning.'"

Tulio starts fumbling for his pistol. Chel arches an eyebrow, gently returning the sword to its master's side. Javi snorts. "What are gonna do, kill him again?"

"If that's what it takes," he mutters earnestly.

Chel sighs. "The very air will do that soon enough." She knows from her own museum's futile battles against humidity and mold growth how delicate a mummy can be. She's heard the horror stories out of Egypt. Kings that have survived in slumber for millennium, rotting away in the damp European air. In cracking open his miraculously sealed tomb she has subjected Lord Mixchel to the same fate.

What are the odds those Americans are vain enough to lug a camera with them?

Chel snorts. Even if they had, it wouldn't have survived the barge.

Instead she cracks open her journal and starts sketching every last minute detail of that serene face, the graceful fold his arms, before it is lost forever.

* * *

"What is that smell?" Javi sniffs hopefully. "It smells almost like chicken."

Tulio hands him a spit of roasted snake. He sighs and takes a shameless bite. Altivo wrinkles his nose at them. Cortes, who sits as far from them as physically possible, curls his lip in silent disgust.

The Americans hunker right down at their fire, one they've shared to avoid any more nocturnal ambushes. In their arms they cradle ugly little golden idols, each identical to the other. Even Cortes has claimed one. One possessive foot rests atop it. Henderson smugly waves his their way.

"Say, Oguilo, what d'you think these honeys will fetch back at home?"

"We heard your folks found yourselves a nice gilded mummy," Burns says amiably. "Congratulations."

Chel smiles politely back. Javi's hand pats his shirt, where the puzzle key rests. The sarcophagus lid was too heavy to lift and seal again, but Lord Mixchel and his grave goods are more secure under a locked coffin.

"Shame he'll rot away before we reach civilization," Daniels jeers.

"Too bad you can't smoke him out like jerky," Henderson japes. "Maybe then he'll keep."

They laugh among themselves, because Javi and Tulio bristle. Chel taps her chin and weighs the merits of extra preservation. "You know, that just might work."

Their laughter trails off uncertainly. Chel smiles back. "Speaking of accomplishments, what did you boys discover today?"

"Ugly little men," Burns chimes in. He quirks a smile down at his. "But they kinda grow on you after awhile."

Dr. Chamberlain scoffs disdainfully. "Sacrificial proxies, actually." He squints down at his black-bound book, also pried from the stele's base. It is no Book of the Sun. "According to the Book of the Jaguar, Manoa was quite stingy with their human sacrifices, and offered gold instead to appease their deities. Quite unusual, when one considers how bloodthirsty their Aztec neighbors to the north were." He flips to another page. "There appears to be some significance attached to these five heads in particular."

Cortes spits, breaking his silence for the first time that night. "Pagan superstition, doctor. This ugly idol will melt down into gold no less pure than what my ancestors took from the other savages. And your book is best burned, so no one can unearth those awful philosophies ever again."

Dr. Chamberlain cradles his book like a child. "This is a treasure without price, senor. Likewise, you shall find your little idol of great more value if left intact."

Cortes sneers and falls silent. His dark eyes glitter. Chel wonders if his religious convictions will hold so true once he realizes what price a relic of that size will fetch. Such zeal in the past is why such artifacts are rare now, after all.

...Well, that and Spain's endless hunger for gold, a human greed only newly matched by what museums will offer for prestigious artifacts. Like those plucked from El Dorado's source.

Hours drift by. Chel studies her sketches, those warnings rephrased multiple times. Manoa claims to have a god entombed a god, yet has spoken so little of him beyond his need to stay asleep, and the cycles halted before they can begin again.

Frustrated, Chel pinches her nose and glances up. Most of the men have turned in for the night. The surviving diggers huddle close together. The Americans are sprawled out, clutching at their guns and gold. Even Cortes, despite his rigid stance, has his head craned back against a tree and an iron grip on his gold. Dr. Chamberlain snores with the Book of the Jaguar sprawled carelessly across his lap.

Chel helps herself. Tulio, whose eyes had been drifting closed, snaps wide awake. "Are you nuts?" he hisses.

She shushes him. Opening her journal, she copies like a woman possessed. Like hell is she letting this knowledge rot away up north because Dr. Chamberlain doesn't play nice with the other scholars. The gylphs fly from her hand. This dialect (or language?) is tricky, but Chel doesn't waste time on puzzling out the words. Not until they're safely transcribed in a copy she can keep. She is only distantly aware of Tulio staying up with her as a wary lookout. Javi snores obliviously on. Altivo, asleep on his hooves, barely twitches an ear.

Theft complete, Chel eases the Book of the Jaguar back into the doctor's lap.

"Nice one," Tulio concedes in earnest admiration. "Can we go to bed now?"

As if she can sleep now! "You can," she whispers back, before darting for the catacombs.

Her partner in crime follows, grumbling the whole way. "What are you even trying to do?"

"Checking my initial translations," Chel answers, running an appreciative hand over those intricate glyphs. "Now that I have a wider reference for Manoan, some of the inscriptions for the sarcophagus might make more sense."

"You to have to do it right here with the dead guy? Didn't you already copy everything down?"

Chel grins. "I have my primary source right here, no asshole Americans can look over my shoulder, and now I don't have to turn pages to consult what I wrote down."

Tulio groans. He hunkers down against a wall as Chel starts poring over her references. He's snoring in no time. Chel appreciates the ambiance. It's a pleasant background noise. Aside from the crackle of the torch and her own breathing, the catacombs are otherwise silent as the tomb. To fill in the quiet Chel starts muttering some syllables out loud, testing them out. Huh. The first page reads less like prayer and more like a summon-

_BOOM._

Chel drops her journal with a piercing shriek. Tulio flies awake with an even louder squeal, near hitting the ceiling. Not that anyone can hear them. They're deep in the catacombs, the common camp far away from where three diggers were burned to death by acid.

A quizzical silence follows.

_BOOM._

It is not an explosion from the world above. It is not the ceiling coming down on them. The sound comes from right before them.

_BOOM._

The coffin shakes once more, as the mummified god rages against his prison.

"Chel!" Tulio cries. "What did you _do?"_

"I was just reading aloud!" she yells back. "What harm ever came from reading aloud?"

_BOOM._

_"Over a dead guy's coffin?"_

A hysterical thought comes to her. "W-We locked him in. He can't-"

_CRA-ACK._

As the sound of ancient wood splintering, Tulio bolts for it. Chel is right behind him.

Until she trips.

"Run!" she cries. "Save yourself!"

Tulio grinds to a halt. He grits his teeth, raises his pistol, and charges back like the true, idiot hero he is. "Oh, son of a-"

Tulio slows, ever so slightly lowering his gun. Chel scrambles to her feet and peers back herself, puzzled no skeletal hands have seized her throat and drained her dry yet.

In her blind panic she had expected the mummy to lunge after them with the ferocious intensity of a starving jaguar after tearing its way through solid wood. Instead it is has barely hauled itself free of its coffin. It plops to the ground, curling into itself. In restful repose the mummy had seemed almost majestic. Curled miserably into itself, it is... small, decrepit, stripped of the vitality even the most emaciated living man possesses. Tulio and Chel are deathly silent. The only sound is a low, stifled wheeze through withered lungs.

Chel's fear slowly ebbs. She expects revulsion. All she gets is... pity.

And guilt. Horrible, crushing guilt.

Man or deity, she has wrenched this being before her from some peaceful rest and shoved it _\- him -_ into a desiccated shell.

The mummy lurches, sloughing off heavy guide that must way his bony limbs down like shackles. Tulio cocks his pistol. The mummy ignores him, sunken eye sockets fixating on something else entirely. On his elbows, the mummy instead crawls for the fallen torch. Down in the dirt, gold dust rubbed away and stripped of his adornments, he does not look like a god at all. Not even a dead one.

"I'm sorry," Chel creaks out, as the being she raised chooses immolation over his impossible existence. "So, so sorry."

As if an indigenous Manoan understands Spanish. If his sense of hearing hasn't long rotted away.

The mummy leans over the flame. Instead of combusting, he _inhales._ His wheeze deepens into a ragged groan. Labored breathing follows. Before the torch gutters out, Chel glimpses wisps of yellowed hair still clinging to his skull. Green eyes blearily peer out from a dead face.

Now with the strength to lurch up onto his hands and knees, the mummy crawls after them. Tulio aims his pistol with a trembling hand. Chel snatches his wrist.

"Look!" she snaps, snatching the sole surviving torch from him. As she waves it the mummy's eyes, dull and listless, track it. When she waves it dangerously close, he moans and grasps hungrily after the flame. "It's not _us_ he's after."

"It's a _mummy,_ Chel. A living, fireproof _mummy god!"_

"Sun god," she corrects absently.

The words ring with truth the moment she utters them. The celestial imagery on his coffin. The sun-shaped lock. The gold dust and golden hair. His invulnerability to flame and huger for...

Slowly and patiently, Chel guides the mummy to the exit, keeping the torch just out of his reach. He limps desperately after her. Tulio keeps his pistol trained on him yet never actually shoots.

"You know that little voice most people have? The one that tells them to quit when they're ahead? _You don't have one."_

Chel considers the mummy's agonizing pace and the long, long way through the catacomb. "Either help or fuck the hell off." Shuffling the torch into her other hand, she bends down.

_"Chel!"_

Ignoring him, Chel flings a brittle arm over her shoulder. The mummy doesn't try to strangle or suck the life out of her. His hand only weakly gropes for the torch. Chel grunts and tries to stagger forward. The mummy might be a living bundle of sticks, but he's still an ache on her shoulder, and his legs can't take his weight.

"Oh, for the love of..."

Grumbling curses under his breath, Tulio holsters his pistol. They wind up carrying the mummy between them, Tulio with his arms wrapped around his shoulders and Chel supporting his legs under one arm. The bewildered mummy stops grasping for their one source of light. He stares after it, sparing only the occasional baffled glance for the adventurers hauling him like a sack of potatoes.

As they near the exit, the mummy starts struggling in earnest, with more vigor than he's had yet. Chel grunts with the effort of holding him.

The entrance is no longer pitch black. The sky is smoky gray, growing brighter by the moment. With natural light to guide the way, Chel surrenders her torch. The mummy blinks at her. She shrugs back and gets a better grip on his legs.

In one deep inhale, the tunnel falls into darkness. Chel shifts her weight as her load suddenly grows heavier, the brittle legs thicker. The mummy's labored breathing grows louder. He squirms. It's harder than ever to hold him.

Upon reaching the threshold they try gently lowering him to the ground. He squirms his way loose and falls the rest of the way down. Chel winces. His bones aren't quite as brittle, but...

The sun breaches the horizon, a warm line of fiery red. Green eyes stare skyward. The mummy falls back with a content sigh, sprawled out in the dirt. He basks as the sun ascends, letting its rising light wash over him.

Chel's jaw drops. A rusty squeak escapes Tulio.

Between one deep inhale and exhale, the mummy is gone, his brittle limbs covered by slim muscle and warm skin. Lord Mixchel smiles drowsily at them, before his emerald eyes flutter close. He basks like a flower, like a snake after a long cold night, like a solar god starved of his domain for five hundred years.

Chel can't rip her eyes away from his face. The sun god is a blond. Not that much of a stretch. But the golden beard, the _European_ features, that's...

Tulio shrugs off his vest. Gingerly he creeps forward to drape it over Lord Mixchel's hips. Because only then does Chel realize the moldered remnants of his original clothing no longer hide everything now down there.

"Hey, Chel?"

"Hm?"

"Wanna go grab your brother?"

"...Okay."

Chel startles out of ogling divinity, darting off for camp. She still lingers for one last wondrous look.

* * *

Javi stares. Altivo stares. Even Chel and Tulio, a little more used to the concept, stare.

Oblivious to his audience, Lord Mixchel downs whole water skins and ravenously tears his way through their rations like a wolf pack. Or someone who's skipped five hundred years of meals.

"Are you sure that's really him?" Javi mumbles halfheartedly. Because even knows on some level there is no denying this truth.

His partners nod. Including Altivo.

_"Lord Mixchel?"_ Chel offers in tentative Manoan. If her half-assed pronunciation could revive a _god_ surely she can be understand. _"Can you understand me?"_

The god startles, peering up at her. His beard is flaked in crumbs, his cheeks stuffed with biscuits. He chews, swallows, and awkwardly clears his throat. His enthralled audience leans in. "Just... Just Miguel, please."

Javi and Tulio gape at his flawless Spanish. Chel, not so surprised, offers out another testing hand. "Nice to meet you, Miguel. My name is Consuelo, but please call me Chel."

Miguel, with appropriately sunny smile, reflexively returns the handshake. Introductions are made with Javi and Tulio. Miguel even grins and offers some of his biscuits up to Altivo. The stallion stares at him a long moment before gracefully nibbling at them. Miguel laughs and strokes his nose. The adventurers stare at him and at each other, unsure of how to continue.

Green eyes drift away from Altivo to truly take in their surroundings for the first time. They fly wide open. "Please," Miguel murmurs. "What year is it?"

"1932," Tulio blurts out immediately, because of course he has no idea a precolonial civilization worked off a completely different system.

"In the year of our Lord?" Miguel whispers hoarsely. At their solemn nods, he huddles into himself. "Over four hundred years. I.... I..." His shoulders square, and a scolding expression more befitting of divinity crosses his features. "I should have slumbered all eternity. What on earth woke me up after only four measly centuries?"

Tulio stares at Chel. Javi stares at Chel. She coughs. "That would have been me. By complete accident. Sorry."

"Y-You revived me _accidentally?_ Did you just skip all the warnings?"

"To be fair, completely ordinary tombs have those sorts of curses all the tomb," Javi blurts out in his sister's defense. "Most of their occupants just don't have anything left to say about it."

"Y-You came to grave rob _my city?"_ They guiltily avert their eyes. Miguel stares down at himself and his missing adornments. He sighs, clutches at the sole medallion that survived his shuffle out of the grave. Then he readjusts the vest over his crotch, cheeks blushing bright red. "Not terribly surprising, considering how I even got here in the first place." Tired green eyes flick to them. "You won't find much here, by the way. Chief Tanni ordered Manoa abandoned centuries ago. Considering... you know."

Javi's face falls in dismay. So does Tulio's. "Y-You needed to make the whole damn city your tomb?"

Green eyes darken. "And _his."_

Ominous silence falls over them. Despite the newborn sun they shiver at the icy breeze that stirs the trees.

"The Jaguar God?" Chel whispers.

"If only it were _just_ him," Miguel answers grimly. Then he flexes one hand and peers thoughtfully up at the sun. "Then again, I _barely_ woke up before the spell cut off. And I'm nowhere near where I should be. He might not even be up yet. Hopefully."

Chel surrenders her illicit journal to him. "Honestly, I stopped the moment you started banging against your coffin."

He squints at the cover, then starts flipping through the pages. Miguel freezes on the sketch of his own mummified form. He grimaces, rubbing at his chin to confirm himself alive and whole, then continues through the plagiarized pages. "These are the spells and rituals, but this _isn't_ the Book of the Jaguar."

"If you didn't want either you or the other guy to ever wake up, why be _buried_ with it?" Javi breaks in.

"Oh, any copies should be long gone. _Should be."_ Miguel scoldingly waves the journal. "The original book has been kept by generations of the Jaguar God's priests and priestesses. They consecrated it over sacrificial altars and wrote whole pages in human blood. It will survive any attempt to burn it or otherwise destroy it." He frowns. "Then again, no priest was crazy enough to try binding the Jaguar God in their bodies until..."

"Until one was," Tulio sighs.

Miguel clenches his fists. "A spell of that weight couldn't be revoked, but it could be... tweaked. Given balance."

_"No death without life,"_ Chel murmurs in Manoan.

The god bows his head. "It would have taken dozens of innocent lives to seal that bastard away, without any guarantee it would last for eternity, that anyone with the knowledge to stop him would survive should he ever rise again." He clutches the sun medallion around his neck. "A willing sacrifice of... of divine magnitude... changed that. With me to serve as counterweight, Chief Tanni was able to pare the ritual down to five golden heads. Symbolic lives."

"Buried right with you," Tulio surmises. "And the indestructible book. All so you could wake up and destroy the idiots trying to raise the evil god instead."

Miguel smiles wanly. "Pretty much." His gaze sweeps around the area, pointedly devoid of golden heads and cursed books. "So, where are they now?"

Chel freezes as she recalls the Book of the Jaguar, in Dr. Chamberlain's rational, careless hands. "Um..."

At which precise and timely interval, a shower of gunfire erupts from camp.

* * *

His sword left behind in his grave, Miguel charges into the fray brandishing a machete formerly used to hack through undergrowth and venomous snakes. The sight of a naked, sword-wielding Spaniard makes the Americans pause in confusion. Their attackers, the same green-garbed raiders from the barge and the earlier attack, stumble back or fall to their knees. Apparently Manoa's successors know the tales of their ancestors, and guard their sacred city just as vigilantly.

Cortes, with no such compunctions, aims his rifle at the obvious target.

Miguel staggers from the gunshot leveled at his chest, but does not drop. "No!" he gasps, far too late.

The Manoans aim their guns at Cortes. Ten bullets pierce his torso, splattering red life's blood over the golden idol whose power had come from serving as a substitute for sacrifice.

As Cortes falls, a piercing shriek fills the air, high and hateful. Everyone freezes.

Except Miguel. Spitting up the bullet and his wound weaving shut, he stalks forward to snatch the Book of the Jaguar out of Dr. Chamberlain's arms. The doctor gapes at him. So do the Americans.

"He shall not be named is awake," growls a Manoan soldier. "And it's all _their_ fault!"

"Shoot those idiots and you'll break the last four seals keeping me _and_ Tzekel-Kan from full power," Miguel grinds out.

"E-Excuse me?" Burns yelps.

Tulio firmly shushes him. "The grown-ups are talking now."

* * *

The four surviving pieces of bait are ushered to the tallest vantage point around, the temple of the Dual Gods, one with enough lingering power to serve as extra protection from the feral mummy priest still after them. The grumpy Americans are allowed only machetes, lest they try to charge off and play cowboy. Their protection is left to the Manoan fighters who fortify the old temper chambers, aiming their guns at any suspicious shadow.

Chel and the Book of the Jaguar are dumped with them. So is the Book of the Sun, the solid gold tome that contains the binding rituals to repeat Tzekel-Kan's sealing. Miguel's sealing. The god, now dressed in too-big khakis and a loose red shirt, has already charged off in pursuit of his eternal foe. Tulio and Javi help him hunt. Partly because it's their fault all this shit happens. Partly because neither wants to abandon this divine idiot to the same force that left Cortes' muscular body a desiccated corpse.

Since all this is really all Chel's fault, she flings the Book of the Jaguar aside for the Book of the Sun.

Dr. Chamberlain scowls icily at her. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Not nearly," she retorts, and flips open golden pages.

Dr. Chamberlain glances at their Manoan protectors, far too busy raining gunfire upon the reanimated dead trying to storm the temple steps to care about drama among the civilians. His distrust of them keeps his mouth shut. He turns to his companions instead.

"We're marked too, right?" Daniels asks quietly. "'Cause of Cortes?"

"Hell if I'm ending up like that bastard!" Henderson snarls. "I'm gonna-"

"-Go out guns blazing?" Chel cuts in sharply. "You saw what gunfire did do the god _protecting_ humanity. You'll go out there, die, and bring us one step closer to ending the world."

"That ritual," Burns murmurs, peering up through his bifocals. "Can they even pull it off again if we're still alive?"

"O-Of course they can," Dr. Chamberlain insists weakly. "We're..."

He trails off. The Americans instead turn to Chel. Her grim silence is answer enough. Burns mumbles a tearful prayer. Daniels and Henderson decide rage is better than despair. They start arguing with each other once more, that it's better to go out fighting than die like rats cowering away in the dark.

"Who says _any_ of you have to die today?"

"You did!" Henderson snarls.

"Not technically," Burns points out.

"She might as well have!" Daniels spits.

"One cannot kill a god," Dr. Chamberlain scoffs. "We have established this quite well."

Chel brushes thoughtful fingers over a hymn to Lady Death, for even in a holy text that exalts their gods the Manoans were mindful of their own mortality, and that their eternal paradise resided in the life beyond. The Jaguar God, a deity of war and destruction, is far from the final judge in those matters. Her eye is riveted to a glyph that can only mean 'mortal.'

"Who said anything about killing _gods?"_

* * *

Tulio's day began with watching a hot librarian wake a mummy and then helping a beautiful idiot resurrect himself. The hours after are spent beating back wrathful skeletons and bewitched jaguars. Oh, Manoa burned their dead. Their descendants have not thought to do the same to the hundreds of adventurers that have died seeking their legendary treasures. This time is punctuated by Miguel and his mortal foe rampaging across the city ruins in their eternal battle. Miguel's machete glints gold against the sun. Every wound taken heals.

Tzekel-Kan, down four mortal souls and never given the opportunity to slip away after them, is a shrieking, gooey mess held together by black ooze and pure hate. In broad daylight there's no shadows to hide in. Miguel drags him back in the light every time he tries.

That won't be true much longer. Now the sun's going down. If Miguel could fight him to a standstill during the day, then...

The ground quakes. A jade jaguar larger than any elephant rips itself free from the rubble of its last battle four centuries ago. It charges right for the dueling gods.

Tulio freezes. His pistol ignores the skeletons crawling up the debris after him. "Hey, cat creep!"

The jade idol pays him no mind. Not until a bullet shatters its eye like glass.

Tulio bolts. At least the many tons of stone charging after him shatter his skeleton problem.

A whinny sounds to his left. Tulio thrusts out a hand. Javi snatches him up. Altivo cuts sharply to the left. The jade jaguar levels another building as it changes course. Astride a horse, they only have a minimum advantage. That idol eats up the distance with every bound. Unlike a mortal horse, it will never grow tired, or run out of breath.

Their wild ride through the city circles back to the square before the roaring whirlpool, where the gods have once more wound up. As the sun sinks, the shadows advance. Miguel is on his back, machete lost. Both his arms and legs tremble from keeping his foe at bay. Tzekel-Kan bears down like gravity, opening his mouth impossibly wide and inhaling greedily. Bit by bit, the radiance around Miguel dims.

Javi squawks when Tulio flings himself from horseback. No matter. The jade jaguar is now fixated solely on Altivo and continues his chase.

With his last bullet, he shoots.

Tzekel-Kan snarls, as the bullet zips through his skull. Tulio stalks forward, hand reaching for the knife tucked squarely in his pocket.

Thanks to the lovely traditional curses he's heard falling from the mouths of those Manoan fighters, he knows exactly the sort of insult that makes an angry god take notice.

"Tulio," Miguel wheezes in horror. He's looking more ragged the moment, a little less like a god and more like the mummy from this morning. "Tulio, r-"

Tzekel-Kan reaches down and _squeezes._ He raises whole, at least on the outside. His tattooed face twists in a gleeful snarl. His eyes are solid green and glowing. He stalks forward with inhuman, predatory grace to clench iron fingers around Tulio's neck.

Before those jaws can open, he brings his knife down, right into the muscles that keep human hands clenched. Tzekel-Kan shrieks, dropping him.

Tulio bolts for the whirlpool, and the machete not quite kicked over the precipice. He barely grabs it before the war god incarnate pounces. They slide dangerously close to the edge, Tulio's head skidding over. Tzekel-Kan bares his teeth in glee and-

-shivers in mortal dread, just like Tulio does, when obsidian wings blacker than any night slice through the air, splitting right through their souls.

Far away, a jaguar yowls in pain and terror.

Tulio shakily exhales when the moment passes. Above him, Tzekel-Kan blinks, eyes dark brown and bewildered.

Metal glints in the dark.

Tulio kicks and slips his way free, bolting for solid ground. Shakily, Tzekel-Kan rises after him. He yanks the knife free of his gut. Red, mortal blood drips from the blood. It flows from the gaping wound left behind, one that never winds its way shut. Tzekel-Kan blinks, astonishment giving way to terror and a hatred even more terrible than before. He tries to growl out a warning. It's lost in a high scream when he instead staggers a bit too far left and plunges right off the precipice into the whirlpool below.

After several heart-pounding moments, Tulio turns his back on the whirlpool for the shape still crumpled in the square.

"Miguel!"

He falls to his knees, brushing gold hair back from a pale face. Miguel groans and cracks open green eyes.

"T-Tulio?" he croaks. "W-What's..."

He trails off, feeling at the necklace of dark bruises left around his throat. They never fade. Not even the little cuts and scrapes vanish, like all others from earlier. Miguel raises a tremulous hand to his chest, to some truth only gods must hold there. His brows furrow, before flying all the way into his hairline.

Tulio helps him to his feet. Together they limp back toward the stele of the Dual Gods. They don't quite make it that far before Chel flings herself into her arms.

"Chel?" he mumbles. "What did you _do?"_

She grins, for she has very much done something. "Well, you can't kill _gods,_ now can you? But Tzekel-Kan wasn't a god. Not until he bound the Jaguar God to him and the mortal plane. All I did was... restore cosmic order."

Miguel blinks uncomprehendingly. "Is... Is it over?"

Her smirk gentles into sincerity. "It's over."

Miguel's uncertain expression wavers.

Then he collapses into their arms, sobbing shamelessly.

His partners hold him there.

* * *

When all is said and done, the American expedition leaves the jungle not quite empty-handed. Their surviving diggers deserted them hours ago, escorted by a few understanding Manoans far away from the idiot employers that near got themselves fatally cursed. Their ill-fated gold is vehemently tossed into the volcano overlooking the valley. They are bound to lifelong silence on the events of the City of Gold, quite literally. But they still have lives to lose. And aren't dried-up husks like their colleague Cortes.

Dr. Chamberlain's career, however, is indeed very much dead. Dr. Baez is a very respected member of the academic community and not the only friend Manoa has among the powerful. Dr. Chamberlain will be laughed out of museums and universities as the idiot who led good men to folly long after the rest of the rational world recovered from the fever dream that was El Dorado. Those surviving diggers have very real grounds to sue him _and_ his American benefactors. The same holds doubly true for the families of those who did not survive the pressurized acid.

Chel doesn't get her Book of the Sun _or_ any copy of the Book of the Jaguar. That suits them all just fine.

Javi keels over in a faint when Miguel mentions that of course the godly tribute from his brief conscious time as an actual god remains untouched. For helping their part in ridding him of that unwelcome gift, of course Javi gets his fair share.

Chel has her gold too of course. She also has Tulio, who happily gloats over stabbing an ancient mummy to death. And Miguel, who is spellbound by the concept of airplanes and electric lights. And Altivo, who silently suffers through their constant chatter.

...Yeah. Gold's the least of what Manoa has given her.

Grinning at her boys, Chel wonders at the roads they'll travel together, without maps.

But maybe always a plan. God knows what would have become of them if Chief Tannabok and his descendants had not been so thorough in their measures to avert the end of days.

...And a _long_ vacation first. Mostly with those not related to her. Or the horse.

Chel grins at Tulio and Miguel, already bickering like an old couple. Their smiles falter somewhat.

Both. Both is good.

"Hey, Chel," Tulio says after a long pause. "What's on your mind?"

She bites her lip. "...Just some expeditions a little closer to home. A _lot_ closer."

"Oh?" Tulio slumps in dread, before he brightens. _"Oh."_

Miguel blinks. "How close?"

"The kind where you don't even have to leave home." Tulio pauses, because the last place Miguel called home is now ancient ruins. "Er, if you want to."

Despite the loss of his powers, Miguel's grin still lights up the day. His purr brings heat rushing to their cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The easy way out would have been to place Miguel into Jonathon's role. My muse does not take the easy way out. Especially not when I've given Chel a brother in my big 'verse of stories. Javi is indeed essentially the golden gods' Xaya if he was reborn in a more modern era. Likewise here Chel is a diminutive of Chelo - itself a diminutive of Consuelo. 'Carnero' is indeed an expy for Carnahan and 'Olguin' for O'Connell. Except those surnames to change by the universe, if any are needed :p 
> 
> I was also gonna end this story at gunfire breaking out in the American camp and leave it up to your lovely imaginations, but by gods I wanted my fluffy ending this time around. Even the bumbling Americans make it out. Mostly because I'm still inexplicably attached to the one with glasses who isn't as big of a douche as his compatriots.
> 
> The Mesoamerican texts wouldn't be more thoroughly translated until some decades past 1932. Aztec/Nahuatl is very much for interpretation to this day because of how removed the system was from traditional letter or hieroglyphs. But artistic license, because one of the several languages Chel knows is close enough to Manoan to raise ourselves a mummy :p
> 
> 1999 The Mummy, I love you. You are a glorious, cheesy action and adventurer movie with the campiness we don't get too often these days. But by God was your plot an Idiot Plot. Because their mummy is cursed by the people who sealed him to be that way. And then buried with everything that will allow him to resurrect his love and cause the apocalypse. 
> 
> Here Tzekel-Kan turned himself into an immortal being. And the steps Miguel took to try stopping him vaulted him into Actual Divinity. Turns out he made himself the perfect guardian to prevent Tzekel-Kan from ever breaking loose, if any idiots looking to raise themselves a doomsday weapon unwittingly dug up the god who wants the exact opposite instead. For all the sequel to The Mummy screwed Anubis over, in the original he is a more neutral power that steals away Imhotep's immortality, just as Lady Death does her. Imhotep and Tzekel-Kan don't survive it. Miguel, however... ; )


	3. (W)arm Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M sucks at being Dead. Always has. T, marginally less of a poor excuse of a zombie, is able to cover for him. Mostly
> 
> Until the idiot brings home a Living woman to the hive.
> 
> Chel is very confused by all this. And intrigued. 
> 
> Or: a fusion with Warm Bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a very different fusion. Then Warm Bodies possessed me. Fortunately, due to alternative titles, the fluffy fic of our hapless idiots raising rambunctious werewolves remains open for the future ; )

M is dead.

Well, zombie Dead. Not inanimate corpse dead. Or even Boney Dead, thank you very much. He still has most of his flesh and muscle. He even has a name!

...The first syllable, at least. _Mmm._ That's a promising start. And more than most of his fellow corpses can claim.

M also has T. Or maybe T has M. They're best friends. Partners, even. In hunts M charges forward, groaning dramatically as he can, so T can strike their targets from behind. When zombies start swarming over their fallen kills they snap and growl theatrically at each other, distracting the puzzled horde long enough to shuffle off with the best pieces of meat. They'll even pick each other's brains.

Human flesh keeps a zombie from starving and dropping dead as an actual corpse. It is a fresh human brain, still brimming with memories, that makes their gray existences temporary explode in color and stolen sensations. Zombies will gladly maul each other to steal just a scrap of that precious gray matter. M will nibble at a cortex and pass it on to T. Sometimes the memories are even vivid enough to start a conversation over.

M is not the strongest zombie or the fastest. Unlike T, he can't even call himself among the smartest. He's taken too many bullets to the torso from attacking early to count as intelligent. What M has is a (mostly) perfect face and an eloquence that draws the ladies in like dazzled carp. His record is four whole syllables!

Once the airport served as a bustling hub of travel and tourism. Now it is a hive, the largest for miles. The Boneys that dwell in the terminal heart are especially passionate missionaries. They stalk after hunts to fiercely guard skulls, so whole human camps of survivors will stagger up as fellow zombies. When not actively recruiting outside the ranks, the Boneys focus their efforts within. As zombies flesh off their rotting skins, so do they their last scraps of human memory and human weakness, and truly join the Dead.

M is not a pious zombie. The buzzing hymns of the Boneys that make most zombies wave their hands in reverence are harsh against his ears, not hypnotic. Even more awful than group worship is the school. Newborn zombies, especially children, are so inefficient at killing. The terrified humans the Boneys occasionally drag back alive serve as perfect fodder. M, who always goes for the fastest kill he can, covers his ears to those long, dragged out screams and curses.

T is far better at pretending. He’ll raise his arms and gyrate with the rest of the crowd, elbow M into the same. He’ll stand, seemingly enraptured by zombie lessons, at just the right angle where M can hide his gaze in his shoulder. For this reason the Boneys tolerate their partnership. They see T as keeping M in line. The deviants wind up with their skulls viciously cracked, their inanimate corpses tossed out before they can infect the whole hive.

Yet not even T’s guise is perfect. During the hymns he’ll roll his eyes to the shattered glass ceiling above. His groans have a sarcastic edge M alone can appreciate. Such nuance is their secret, lost on a crow of emotional philistines.

When the black eye sockets of the Boneys are not upon them, M and T wander the airport with slightly more purpose than the average lost zombie. M gleefully pillages the souvenir shops for anything color, that stirs up the tiniest ghost of something other than numbness inside him. T, with a far more critical eye, holds things up to the light. He brings home only the shiniest objects.

Today is not a usual day. M restlessly prowls the airport alone. Usually the walls feel secure, a barrier from the relentless elements of outside. Now they press in like bars. He bumps into far more zombies than usual. Their slowness, his inability to escape, worsens whatever he’s feeling.

Growling, he rips through his usual stores. There is nothing left to find. Everything of value was salvaged long ago.

M discovers his partner standing before the bar, trying to catch the eye of the business woman that stubbornly refuses to ever let her briefcase go. She shambles past without ever meeting his eye.

“H-Hey!” T groans in her direction, because the spoken word seduces like a sultry gaze never can. His lungs are too weak and his target too far away. His shoulders droop more than usual.

“Ttt…” Miguel wheezes.

Dull gray eyes flick to him. His partner jerks a hand up. “Mm…”

Normally M twitches a hand back, lips twitching with some half-forgotten expression. Now he only desperately seizes onto his partner. T’s brows furrow. M’s limbs jerk at more at the proximity, fingers straining for something he can’t even speak, let alone reach.

“H-Hungry,” he moans at last. There is only one void inside him that must be filled and it yawns wide and dark today.

T flops a hand over his arm. “J-Just ate… two days…”

 _“Hungry,”_ M hisses, baring blackened teeth. He knows it the truth. “City!”

There is a whole nest of humans out there, not that even a Boney can reach them before gunfire tears them to shreds. But there are haggard bands that travel through the city to reach its walls and sometimes parties they send out. Those groups are better armed, but better fed. Half a horde might die, but the tender meat they carry back to the hive makes it more than worth the bodies lost.

T’s lungs heave a dusty sigh. There was indeed a hunt two days ago. The best and boldest zombies are still well-sated, won’t dare a journey back to the city for at least another week. That’s a week too long for whatever is eating away inside him. M clutches plaintively at his stomach, eyes widening that the look that makes T crumble in surrender.

Together the pair of them charm a hunting party together, because words like _food_ and _hot blood_ and _brains_ incite the hive like only the siren scent of a live body can. True, their horde is a little smaller than usual, and filled with the sorts of zombies that linger at the back of a pack or wait around for scraps, but it’s still a proper horde. Sort of.

Really, what’s the worst that can happen?

* * *

"Chel!"

What should have been a simple run for medical supplies has turned into a massacre. The horde is too big, the room too small. At a distance the Dead are slow and lumbering. In close quarters, excited by human screams and fresh blood, they lung forward in a snapping, frantic frenzy better befitting the Boneys. Chel swings her shot gun and barely lands a head shot. Her best friend Mari squeaks, trapped beneath the massive corpse of the zombie who came this close to ripping her face off.

Behind her, the survivors still on their feet are retreating. Their gunshots ring further down the hallway. The gargled screams of those still around her cut off as the Dead start their feast.

"Run!" Chel snarls to her friend. If Mari is still able to run.

Chel pumps her shotgun again and again. Corpses collapse. Somewhere in the panic she thinks she sees Mari slip free of the zombie and bolt after the others. Or dart for cover. She hopes.

Her thoughts grind to a halt when her shotgun runs dry. She fumbles at her person for bullets.

Behind the counters up staggers a corpse she had mistaken for dead. Its pewter eyes survey the room, the bodies on both sides, and are almost so wide she might call it shell shocked. Chel freezes for a moment. When that gaze fixates on her, instinct kicks in.

The zombie pauses, face blank. It blinks down at the knife sunk into its chest. That empty expression vanishes when it furrows its brows at her in what can only be absolute bewilderment.

Right. Brain-eating creep. Not the other kind.

Chel swiftly rearms her shotgun.

"Ch... Chel."

She lowers her weapon. "...What?"

The zombie stares right back. "Chel."

They both freeze as groans and shuffling feet from another part of the horde grow closer. In trying to face toward them, Chel turns her back to the zombie before her. Too late does she realize her error and wind up pinned between a corpse and the wall. Misty eyes linger at her neck.

The zombie rips her knife from its chest. It clatters to the floor.

"Safe," it wheezes like a promise.

Its pallid fingers dip into the thick, black ooze welling up from its wound. Chel shivers as its touchy trail trails down her face and gags at the rancid smell left behind. That same hand reaches for her own.

"Come," it mumbles. A small eternity passes. "Puh... Please."

That shocks Chel enough into listening to it. Him. With that scruffy beard he can't be anything else, though he slouches shorter than she is. Slowly and relentlessly, the corpse drags her forward. Right into the crowd of corpses. Not that they pay her any mind. They sniff in her direction and get right back to slinging her fallen comrades over her shoulders. But not before violently smashing their skulls. She shudders and keeps her gaze trained downward.

Her zombie leads her outside. His head jerks in the direction of the city. Chel squeezes his hand in silent affirmative and silent plea. Really, what else does she have going for her at this point.

His grip slackens in surprise. Then his nostrils flare, and his hand tightens near tight enough to cut off her circulation.

Her zombie steps forward, shoulders squaring from their slouch. Chel happily cowers behind him when she realizes the empty eye sockets trained on them.

The Boney prowls forward like a jaguar. It is only dried leather pulled taut over bone, though the skin over its skull has worn away to expose the dull yellow bone beneath. Chel has never seen this sort of creature up close. Those she's seen in videos and photographs had all appeared alien in their uniformity, once their physical differences had all been rotted away. This one has painted its skull in a dull red-brown that can only be dried human blood.

For an eternity Chel's death stares her down. Then it rounds on the zombie horde, hissing and tugging at body corpses in what is clear demand for tribute.

Chel shambles along like she's a new zombie herself, pulled further and further from home. The normal corpses she might outrun. Never a Boney, swift as they are relentless.

She shuffles right behind a horde all the way up to their gods damned hive. Not that her zombie follows them into the terminal. He tugs her away to the tarmac. Most of the planes abandoned there are gleaming white and silver where they have not started to rust over. Her zombie fixates on one painted riotous gold, green, and red.

El Dorado Airlines. Chel is a private snack aboard an El Dorado plane. Of course her death is the strangest zombie attack on record.

Her zombie opens the door. As a hungry swarm doesn't rush out to meet her, she hurries inside, because there are Boneys stalking the distant runway.

Inside the seats are overflowing with stuff. Piles of records. Flutes and violin strings stacked on top of drums and instrument cases. Postcards and atlases laying open. A whole row of shiny stuff, golden watches and diamond rings displayed beside metal spoons and wads of tinfoil.

"Home..." grunts the zombie, fighting for another breath. "Not eat. Keep you safe."

She surveys her surroundings. Not a single corpse, animated or otherwise, aside from the one in front of her.

"All right," Chel agrees bluntly.

Maybe she's just the prize of his collection now. Fine. That means he won't want to eat her for a few days, not if he just feasting on her group a few hours ago. She can lay low for a bit until he grows bored and wanders off. Or she has the opportunity to stab him with one of the many sharp objects carelessly lying around.

The zombie stares at her. She scowls right back until he turns and shambles up the aisle. His hand fumbles at one suspiciously bulging pocket.

Chel shudders. Of course he brought home leftovers.

...Better them than her.

Positioned upright beside her is a guitar in a seat all its own. From where she is Chel can swing it with enough room to brain him. For extra security she steals a hand across the aisle, deftly swiping a steak knife from a pile of utensils.

In the cabin there is no sound but Chel's breathing and the sounds of the zombie just tucking into dessert.

Her jaw clenches at the sound of teeth tearing into grizzle. A beat. Then a sound almost like a low, groaning gag. Something pale gets disdainfully slung onto the seat beside him.

A zombie with an upset stomach. Chel smirks, more secure than ever.

...Unless zombies really need their meat _that_ fresh. There are plenty of reports in El Dorado that sometimes the hordes drag off their prey _alive._

The knife goes sweaty in her palm. Outside the afternoon darkens into night. The zombie never moves. Neither does she.

Chel doesn't do friends anymore. Mari is not a true exception to the rule, only a childhood friend found again after years of loss and heartbreak. Early in the outbreak Chel lost her grandparents. As a teenager it had been her parents. Then she and her brother Xaya had finally reached El Dorado, the golden haven, the one sheltered base around for over a thousand miles, if not the last one left in the world. There Chel had found Mari once more. Not six months later, her big brother Xaya had been ambushed by Boneys on a raid.

Had Mari made it out of there? Had Chel glimpsed her frightened face crouching under a table before the zombie had guided her away? She can't remember. Gods help her. She can't.

Tears are spilling down her cheeks when something shuffles down the aisle. Chel brandishes her knife. The zombie halts in his tracks.

"What are you doing?" she snarls. He stares hopelessly at her, long enough for her true emotions to come roiling out. "Why me? Why did you save _me?"_

A pale hand reaches out toward her. She flinches back, so he uneasily grips at his own sleeve instead. "D-Don't... cry. Safe." He repeats it like a spell, certain of its power. "Keep you safe."

"What are you?" she blurts out.

His silence is almost mournful. Maybe that's just her personifying the fucking zombie again. Humans are hardwired to sympathize with things look like themselves. Even if there is only ravenous monsters behind the guise of loved ones.

Chel squints at the darkness outside and the distant shapes still shambling out there. At night their eyesight might be as bad as hers, but they will follow her scent like a bloodhound. All Boneys have left is their hunger for life. They can hone in on it down like sharks to a drop of blood. An escape is best saved for daylight, with a good meal and good night's rest to regain her stamina. As much as she can get with a corpse leering over her.

Chel considers pointing out he can't keep her here forever. But that might only shorten her lifespan. "I'm very hungry," she declares at last. "For food. Food _humans_ eat."

The zombie stares. Instead of lurching for the door he shambles down the aisle to the galley kitchen. Right. Airplane. Like he'll find anything not expired sometime last decade.

Her eyebrows climb to her hairline when he dutifully shuffles back with the brightest, most garish can of fruit ever packaged. Chel squints down at the expiration label, holding it up to the label.

"Yeah. That'll work."

She sinks her knife in, juice splattering everything. The zombie lurches back like she stabbed the can to death. Chel licks the blade appreciatively. Good old pre-apocalypse cloying sweetness. She just can't find that flavor anymore.

The zombie hands her a spoon from the utensil pile behind him.

"Oh," she mumbles. "Thank you."

Chel digs in. Her zombie is not yet done. Turns out that pile of tinfoil contains buried treasure. Chel boggles at the alcohol tucked beneath it. He frowns down at the bottles before turning with a whole container of tequila. Of course he does.

"Oh. Wow." She grins. "You're my savior. You'd have to _kill_ for this stuff back home."

The zombie's face slackens. Chel's heart pounds, but he only rushes for the exit.

Then he pauses and scowls suspiciously back at her, like she's a puppy about to left alone with a white rug. "Stay. N-Not safe."

Chel frowns out at the pitch blackness. A zombie-smelling plane is a safe haven in a teeming hive. "Not planning on going anywhere."

The zombie reflexively sticks out a hand like he expects her to shake on it. Then he frowns down at his own hand, as if he can't remember the sentimentality behind the gesture. Her heart melts. Just a little.

"I promise," she affirms gently. "Not tonight."

"A f-few days," he murmurs. "Until _they_ forget."

Chel shudders at the reminder of what stalks this airport. "Fine by me."

* * *

T grimaces at the sound his jaw makes as he snaps it pop into place. Out of habit only, of course. There is no pain or pleasure. Not anymore. His vanity is not quite so dead. In that bathroom mirror he fusses over his reflection. The asshole that dislocated his jaw over their struggle for the brain thankfully didn't leave any lasting damage behind. Ugh. Facial wounds are always so easy to pick at. He's witnessed fine-looking zombies maul themselves into mindlessness that way.

Water oozes up from some source through the faucets. It washes dried red blood and black bile from his face. Then his wet, clumsy hands get dragged through his hair to clean it the best he can. He still stares in despair at the lank, oily mane left behind. His hands fumble at his hair at some final step in the process, one long forgotten.

In brushing his hair aside he reveals the black, ugly marks of human teeth indented right above his collarbone. T stares at it. A tremble wracks through his body. With a grimace he sets his hair back into place, a curtain between his old life and the shadow of life after.

"Mmm..." he rasps.

M is alive. T might have wound up in the other half of the horde, but he scoured all the bodies to ensure his partner not among them. M's made it home to the hive. There's no reason to panic.

To speak of the devil, his partner chooses that moment to burst into the bathroom. The door swings wildly behind him. T only has so many haunts in the airport.

"Ttt..."

"Mmm..."

M rushes for him. T's arms snap out to hold him back. Gray eyes narrow at a new black mark scored into his upper chest. T's tired groan is all the answer needed. So is M's grimace back. Only this time his lips jerk ever so slightly upward.

Like a... a _smile._

T's hands tighten around his shoulders. T happens to match M's record in eloquence, thank you very much. Mostly because these four syllables always slip out like muscle memory. _"What did you do?"_

M's smile slides off his face. T is both relieved and dismayed to see the strange expression vanish. His partner stalks to each stall, slamming each one open. Then he prowls to the door and fumbles at its latch. T blinks at the subsequent _click._ Doors lock. Huh.

"New... friend," he admits. "Keep her safe."

T feels his own lips drag downward. T does not turn humans. He's a greedy killer, adept at prying the brain before there's anything left to rise after. Such happens by pure accident, zombies getting startled away from a bitten victim, or Boneys intervening. M...

T's hand gropes at his bite mark. "Did _you-"_

_"No!"_

They both flinch back at such vehemence. M claps his hands over his mouth. Too late. Such a sound is already out there, louder than any zombie should be outside of an imminent kill or the final metamorphosis into a Boney. The shout sounds human enough to lure in several curious corpses to shake curiously at the locked door. T groans loudly and emphatically, at proper zombie levels. M, catching on, gamely joins in.

Zombies growl in disgusted dismay and shuffle off. No humans here, no sirree. Just those two idiots slapping their bodies together again like anything still works down there.

After a long and suspicious silence, T's tense shoulders droop down to their usual slouch. M stands almost straight from his determination.

"All right," T concedes. "New friend. _Our_ new friend."

"Keep her safe?"

"Keep her safe."

M sticks out a fierce hand. "Shake... on it."

T stares down, before jerking out his own. "...Shake on it."

After a quizzical pause, they slap their hands together like dead fish. Eh. Close enough.

M leads them back to the airplane. _Their_ airplane. Out of all their conquests in the hive before, neither of them have brought anybody _home._ T stalks forward to see this brand new corpse M has all but declared partner. M hastens his own pace, bodily throwing himself between T and the door. He snaps his teeth up at him.

"You promised," he hisses. "Keep. Her. Safe."

T sticks up his hands in surrender. "I promised."

M eases the door open, calls out an assurance to whatever is inside, and drags T in after him.

Too late does T realized what he has promised. Of course M hasn't brought him a newly-turned zombie. _No._ That would make him _normal_ for a change. Instead he has brought home a new partner without first bothering to do the basic bite. T's nostrils flare on the smell of Living, heady and potent in such a tight space. He barely pushes forward before M pushes back, glaring up at him. The woman, not as brain dead as her zombie rescuer, has the common sense to brandish her knife in their direction.

With his partner between them, T draws himself up in affront, not aggression. He's already gorged himself to save his brain for savoring later on. If he hadn't, than the Living before them would be irresistible rather than a simple temptation. Rolling his eyes at M, he jerks a sarcastic hand upward. "Hi."

The woman's eyes narrow. She never lowers her blade. "Hello. Call me Chel."

"Hi, _Chel."_

Chel gapes right back at him. T's lips curl up. "Great," she mutters. "Now there's two of you." Her head tilts in thought. "Do you have anything you'd like to be called, to help make this less confusing for us?"

M grandly brings his hand to his chest. "My name is... Mmm... Mmm..."

"Marco?" Chel offers. "Mauricio? Miguel?"

His partner gasps. T squints long and hard at him, dizzy from the force slamming against his head. For a moment he sees green eyes instead of gray, a warm tan over pallid skin. Then the moment passes. T combs a hand through lank blond hair. "Miguel," he breathes, and knows it the truth.

Miguel's lips twitch with what can only be a smile.

Unfortunately, Chel is not _that_ much of a miracle worker. T knows his name is not Tomas, thank you very much. Or Tito or Tristan or Teodosio. Chel's suggestion to simply call him 'T' for the time being is a poor consolation for Miguel. His hopeful smile crumbles into a pout. But T only squeezes his hand to let him know the true mystery was solved for tonight.

Satisfied for tonight, Chel digs up a musty airline blanket, kicks back her seat, and stares firmly at them until they stop staring at her and hustle their way up to the pilot seats. Right. The Living sleep every night. The Dead do not. Not unless one counts the awful torpor they enter as starvation sets in.

But the Dead can dream. Sort of. If one counts feasting on stolen memories as such.

T considers the nibbled bit of sweetbread left for him. It's Miguel's favorite part after a brain, but that's any zombie's undisputed favorite. T almost points out to his partner that of course this stupid hunt was too early, if he couldn't even finish the choice bits. Miguel stares moodily ahead, oblivious to his scolding eyebrows. Considering their guest for the next few days, T downs the tribute without complaint. Can't let a good thing go to waste.

But everyone has room for dessert. Discreetly T sidles out the brain from his pocket, only hours old. He nudges his partner conspiratorially.

Miguel glances down and somehow turns even more ashen than usual. His eyes dart away. "Not hungry," he murmurs.

T frowns. Miguel had been _ravenous_ hours before, possessed by the ferocity that comes only with a long fast from a fresh kill. Even if he gorged himself where T couldn't see, he craves memories even harder than T, especially if the victim traveled to exotic places.

"It's good," T promises. Only no, it's really not. Just another base grunt that carried out his duties like a drone.

Miguel shakes his head emphatically.

Fine. More for T.

He savors it like a fine connoisseur, every last training session and failed attempt at wooing the fairer sex.

When T comes down from the last of his high, red is tinging the horizon. A glance back at Chel reveals her still asleep. For a moment T finds himself entranced by the effortlss sound of her breathing, the soft rise and fall of her chest. He peaks over at his partner, expecting to find him just as entranced.

Miguel is still staring out the window, legs drawn up tight to his chest. Dust has clouded his pewter gaze. He's given up the illusion of breathing, sitting so still that...

"Miguel?" T whispers fearfully.

His partner blinks. Just once, then rapidly. He brings up a hand to scrub across his eyes. T squints suspiciously. Maybe it's the lighting, but they still don't look quite the-

A hand latches on to his own.

"Tulio."

He jerks backward into his seat, fingers squeezing in a death grip. His partner never flinches.

"W-What?" he croaks.

"Your name is Tulio."

He swallows. "H-How..."

An icy hand, cold as his own, trails down his stubbly cheek and his neck, but shies away from the mark. _The_ mark.

Ah. Right.

"Keep you safe," Miguel mutters mournfully. "I... I..."

Tulio catches that hand in his own. "We'll keep _her_ safe. Together. We're... We're _partners._ "

"...Partners."

Belatedly Tulio realizes Miguel broke their record a few sentences with six whole syllables in one steady breath. Instead he savors the silence and lets the moment passed unremarked.

* * *

Considering her company, a few days at the airport flies by. Which surprises Chel, given how the first day is spent. Her idiot boys have stuffed their plane full of a thousand distractions. Miguel is mesmerized hours by watching a drinking bird bob up and down. Tulio sits piling up pocket change in a heap like a miser. Once it's done, he starts the pile elsewhere, without having a clue what he's counting.

When Chel wanders off to help herself to the books, she soon has two wide-eyed zombies begging her to read aloud. Because apparently literacy is yet another thing Death has robbed them of. They bicker over she should choose. In the end they all compromise on a trashy romance novel. Mostly because everyone agrees the cover of one sexy shirtless man leaning passionately against another can only lead to very good things.

The records all turn out to be Miguel's. Not a single one was printed in this century. Miguel's passion is apparently traditional music. Of course it is. Because he's also a sound purist that turns his nose up at digital recordings. Tulio starts jerking to the music, careening into the aisle when he can't contain himself to bouncing his head and tapping his feet. A dusty laugh tumbles out of Miguel as he tumbles after him. Quite literally, because they are uncoordinated zombies in a narrow plane aisle.

Grinning, Chel stands up to show them how to hold a proper rhythm. A mesmerized Tulio becomes her dance partner, as Miguel sits back, utterly enthralled. Tulio heroically tries to mimic the swing of her hips. What he does manage is a smile one might actually call charming.

Miguel bounces up and down on his seat, hand jerking reflexively in front of him. Chel blinks, when she hears the music is currently on a passionate guitar solo.

Leaving Tulio to try and fail at a spin, Chel hustles over to the guitar in its seat of honor, and gently places it into Miguel's lap. He gapes down at it.

"I... I..."

One hand clumsily strums at the strings, flinches away. It is Tulio who comes over and corrects Miguel's stance, nodding in satisfaction. He and Chel sit to watch their partner remember what was stolen from him. With a more natural hold on the guitar, Miguel's hands start moving along to the tune on the record. When his fingers find the courage to pluck, they start hitting accurate beats, if slow and sporadic.

Miguel's eyes narrow in the perfectionist drive of a true artist. They lose him to the guitar.

Chel leans back, imagining a distant lifetime where these two were suave entertainers, wandering where their hearts desired. It would certainly explain Miguel's obsession with travel magazines and postcards of continents no one these days can reach.

When Tulio proudly pulls out his weighted dice from his jacket, her opinion of 'suave entertainers' alters somewhat. Perhaps wanderlust simply pairs well with working on the gray side of the old laws.

Not that Chel can stay holed up in a plane for a few days. Miguel once more dabs at his fresh wound to conceal her Living scent. This time the ooze is runnier, not as dark, but that's probably because the wound is clogging up inside. The zombies sniff at her and shrug. That's good enough for her. So long as she remains by the side of true zombies, that should hide her smell.

"Am I ready for my close-up?" she jokes.

Tulio jerks off his sleeveless vest. "Just to be safe," he murmurs.

Chel wrinkles her nose at its odor and concedes his point.

Under instructions to act dead, she shuffles and groans for all she's worth. Tulio snorts and coughs on laughter exhumed somewhere deep within. Chel grins and lays it on a little less thick after that. Not unless she wants to tease more good humor out of her boys. Every time she does their laughs are a little stronger, a little less like wheezing.

Tulio makes them skirt the outer edges of the terminal. "Tzkl," he mutters in explanation.

"..What?"

"The Boney with the..." Miguel trails a hand down his face, like streaks of blood, and she understands. He shrugs. "It's his favorite sound."

"His only sound," Tulio deadpans.

"The cat creep," Chel sneers. The zombies blink at her. "Because he moves like one."

"That's unfair to cats," Miguel sniffs.

"And to creeps."

Chel turns her snicker into a groan, as several pairs of surrounding eyes snap their way. Tulio snaps his teeth at them. Their gazes focus on him for one terrible moment, before they finally sink back into wandering.

Shaken by that, they only raid the pantry of the restaurant closest to the entrance. She has them gather up all the edible canned food they can hold, because maybe she can bring anything left over back to the base as a small taste of the life before.

On the way back to the plane Chel catches herself walking too swiftly, too smoothly. She tries slowing her pace to match the zombies. Instead she finds them scrambling to catch up to her. In their shared anxiety Miguel and Tulio take to murmuring and bickering to each other, their comebacks quicker and longer with each repartee. Their cadence is smoother, the pauses of even two days ago fading.

Tulio all but slams the plane door behind them. Setting down her cans, Chel silently hands his vest back to him. He grimly slips it back on. "That was too close," he declares grimly.

Miguel stares out the window. A giddy laugh bubbles up from within. "Nonsense, Tulio! We made it, didn't we?"

"Thank you," Chel murmurs. "For everything."

"Of course, Chel," Miguel says immediately. "What are partners for?"

He and Tulio freeze, grimacing at each other. "Er, we keep you safe," Tulio amends. "Once you're safe, we..." He shrugs, at a loss for words the first time that day.

"Until I'm safe and sound, partners, right?" Chel holds out a hand. "Shake on it?"

The zombies gape at it, before slowly reaching out their own hands. To make things simpler she extends her other hand. Two hands take her own, jerking them once in rough but serviceable handshakes. She remembers recoiling from Miguel's icy fingers not too long ago. Funny. He doesn't seem so frigid now. Maybe it's the lack of black bile on his hand?

"Partners," they agree as one, before blinking at each other. Chel can't help her snort.

She settles down to eat. Yesterday the zombies had recalled some sense of manners and sheepishly shuffled to their pilot seats as she ate. Now they plop down to watch. Tulio's nose wrinkles in morbid fascination as she pops the first peach slice into her mouth. Miguel's eyes are wide. And fixated.

Chel chews and swallows awkwardly. Her boys stare unblinkingly back. She's gawked at them plenty over the last several days and they've ogled her. In this light their eyes are still shades of gray, but a little less uniform than she first mistook. Tulio's are a darker, stormier shade. Miguel's veer toward a color that almost reminds her of oxidized copper.

"Don't you two need to... you know?"

"We... ate a few days ago," Tulio states, a hand rubbing at his neck. "We're... okay. Really." Stormy eyes dart to his partner. "Right, Miguel?" A beat too long. _"Miguel?"_

Miguel mumbles noncommittally.

A cold sweat breaks on Chel's neck. Not that Miguel is fixated there. Or her head. Experimentally she waves her fork. His eyes follow it. More specifically, the peach speared to its end.

"Would you like to try some?" she offers neutrally.

Tulio's disgust intensifies. An affirming glance at his partner slackens at Miguel's immediate nod.

"Yes." A beat. "Yes, please."

Chel picks up two peach slices from the can, swiftly setting them down before she can change her mind. Her hand flies back quickly, to the knife almost forgotten in her cushin. It's _Miguel._ He's the sort of zombie that brings live human beings home and makes his zombie partners play nice with them. This sort of curiosity isn't past him. Really.

...Or maybe he's compensating for something else. A loquacious zombie is still a zombie. Maybe the ghost of his former self is stronger than most, but even the Dead do not remain sated forever.

Tulio politely nibbles at his and sets it down immediately. He tries hard to bite back his disgust.

"Not a peach man?" she jokes weakly.

Tulio scrubs his tongue against his sleeve. "No," he sighs. "I... I'm..."

They turn to Miguel. His slice is already gone. He smacks his lips in consideration. Then he snatches up Tulio's abandoned slice. This time he actually takes a moment to chew it. He blinks at their bewildered expressions. "...What?"

Tulio fumbles for the words. "It's too... too _sweet."_

Miguel's opinion is answered by a shrug and licking his fingers. He beams hopefully at Chel.

"No," Tulio cuts in.

"But-"

_"No."_

Chel's heart melts at puppy dog eyes. Then she jerks out of it by remembering puppy dog eyes _from a zombie._ Her suspicious gaze flicks to Tulio, who remains pained but resolved. "Why not?"

"It's _food._ For... For _us_ it's..."

"Like feeding dogs chocolate?" Chel supplies. "Only you can't actually die from it because... well. You know."

"Exactly," Miguel agrees. "So just-"

_"No."_

As they stare at each other in a contest of wills, Chel wolfs down the rest of her dinner. Then she slides the can over. Juice splashes over its side. Tulio snatches it before Miguel can. She blinks at the swiftness, then at the absurdity of Tulio rising to his full height the first time to hold peach juice from Miguel's grasping hands.

"All that's left is water and a lot of sugar," she reasons. "Technically speaking you... already consume that."

Tulio slackens enough for Miguel to snatch his prize. He downs it like vodka. His partner stares at him, aghast.

"What?"

"It's... It's not even dead! It's just _nothing."_

"It's sweet. You said so yourself!"

Tulio's hands twitch. They wander up to Miguel's neck like they want to strangle him, but stop at his shoulders once they realize the futility of that gesture. Stormy blue eyes glower down at Chel. "You should sleep up front tonight."

"Why should I..." Chel follows Tulio's pointed gaze down to the airplane bathroom. "Oh."

Miguel scoffs that he's beyond ever getting sick ever again. Tulio's unimpressed eyebrow explains more than Chel ever wanted to know about the zombie digestive system. The Dead scoff at live animals or even human corpses more than a day old. It is the life they crave. That it comes bundled up in meat and brain matter means a zombie will gorge themselves until their stomach is fit to burst without a hive to divvy up the kill. What happens when all that excess needs to be expelled...

Chel takes one look at what sort of gore is staining the pilot seats and takes first class instead. With earplugs. And a nose plug. She cracks open another can just to have something other than a zombie vomiting up one of her comrades. Only whatever Miguel is retching smells a hell of a lot worse than meat that's only had a few days to go rancid. After living through the end of the world, Chel's smelled _a lot_ worse than that.

Chel freezes as a shape storms up from the back of the plane. Had her indulgence poisoned Miguel that badly? Tulio flings the door open without even glancing her way, slamming it shut behind them. Chel's stomach churns, because the argument her earplugs missed suddenly seems a lot worse.

Chel hurries down the aisle. Only before she enters the bathroom does she think to grab a weapon.

The thought flies out her head entirely when she spots Miguel, curled up and miserable on the bathroom floor.

Chel slams the lid shut on the black nightmare, flushes it away, and helps Miguel to his feet. He staggers against her up into first class, tumbles out into a seat actually decent to lay down in. His moan is low, pitiful, and about as far as those that haunt her nightmares as a moan can possibly get.

Chel roots around the side of the seat to discover a complimentary care package never opened. Ancient mint toothpaste and that crappy little brush hopefully scrub the worst of that taste away. The can of sparkling water, long since gone flat, washes away the rest. At first he gargles it into an old can. Then he seizes the rest of the water and downs it. She winds up in the seat next to Miguel, his head on her lap as she uses that moist toilet to get the sick out of his beard and his hair.

"How do you feel?" she asks at last. Another tortured moan is her response. "Yeah, I figured. All of _this_ just from a little peach juice? It's still just barely in date!"

"It tasted _sweet_ ," Miguel mumbles. "Tulio was right. It should have been nothing."

Chel has no idea how to respond to this. She's never been a fucking member of the undead. So she strokes Miguel's hair instead.

"I c-can't..." he finally rasps. "I... I just _can't."_

"...Can't what?"

His mournful gaze explains it all.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Miguel," she repeats. "When's the last time you've been able to... do what you should be able to do?"

He softly admits he doesn't quite remember. Of course he doesn't. Up until a few days ago, when her presence had so rudely up his and Tulio's own, time had meant nothing to him. Even when his own body had started rejecting the one thing that keeping him Dead and not _dead._

In her lap, his eyes slide wearily closed. Chel hysterically runs her fingers through his hair and tries not to think how a sleeping zombie doesn't feel much different from a simple corpse.

Only, not quite. Behind his lids, Miguel's eyes twitch. So do his limbs, ever so slightly. Every once in a great while his chest heaves with memory of breath.

Miguel dreams.

This... This isn't normal for zombies, right? Any of this.

Chel snorts and answers her own question. "Like you were ever normal."

Miguel mumbles in response. So she tilts her own head and tries to catch what sleep she can.

* * *

The Dead devour the Living. Maybe not Chel in particular, but she's the exception to the rule. Sooner or later, Tulio will be compelled to feed again. He likes doing it whenever the buzz deepens into true hunger, and not a day after. There comes a certain point where even his mind feels compelling to delve into raging violence and do stupid things like charge head-on into an armed party from the base. If he starves too long, there will eventually come a torpor after the rabid hunger, and then he'll just be a plain old corpse collapsed on the ground.

The same applies to Miguel. Gorge on Living flesh, expel what remains after the last buzz wears off, and wait until their energy wears thin again.

The same _should_ apply to Miguel. To the same degree it does to Tulio, if not more so. Miguel is technically _older_ than him. Tulio once more feels at his neck, and knows this very well.

Turns out sparing Chel is not the cause of this shit. Not at all. Only the first symptom Miguel couldn't be bothered to hide.

Tulio tries and fails to remember the last time he and Miguel had a proper meal together. Not merely savoring brains in the airplane, but _feasted._ He can't. Because that idiot _has_ been splitting every horde they attack in, leaves Tulio to sate his own hungers with the assumption his partner has done the same. Miguel has remembered bathroom locks for almost as long. What he forces down these days gets thrown up mere hours later, where Tulio will never know.

What had come up tonight...

Tulio catches himself ranting out loud. Eloquently. He bites his tongue. More than one zombie is gaping dumbly at him. Tulio freezes, drops into a more appropriate slouch, and hams up the groaning. Suspicious eyes linger.

Surreptitiously he sniffs his jacket. It's the jacket, right? It's got to be. He never should have loaned out to Chel. Hell, they should have never let her prance around the airport. Who had her zombie disguise even-

Tulio barely clamps down on a full-throated scream as Tzkl leaps down from the rafters. The weak moan that escapes sounds instead almost zombie like. Almost.

Chel's right. Tzkl is totally a cat creep.

Tzkl's black sockets bore into him. Tulio keeps his eyes trained submissively _(fearfully)_ downward. Never before has the line between predator and prey seemed so thin. Surely a lingering trace of Living isn't that implausible, if he and Miguel are known to have taken a newly turned addition under their wing.

Tzkl buzzes a demand that clearly orders that troublesome new corpse into school for proper education. At least that's what Tulio thinks he means. Miguel is clueless at Boney speech. Tulio's always thought he himself has _(had)_ a better handle on it.

Tulio nearly stammers out an affirmative. But nothing incites Tzkl further than human speech from a Dead tongue. Tulio groans out a meek agreement instead, before he has his lower jaw ripped off.

Tzkl looms. Slowly, Tulio begins to tremble.

Tzkl thrums, pleased by the response, prowls onward.

Tulio lurches for the bathroom. Some instinct has him wrenching for the faucets. He splashes water on his face, drags fingers through his lank hair, and ties it back with the spare hair tie that never leaves his vest.

Wait...

Tulio nearly makes the mistake of facing his reflection. Instead his stomach churns, as if Tzkl's black sockets startled something awake down there. Reflex drags him to the toilet stall.

When he stumbles out an ungodly time later, he realizes he forgot to lock the fucking door.

For one horrible moment Tulio thinks Chel has wandered out for him, only to be turned herself. Then he realizes the figure too tall, the chest too flat. Tulio stares. Blank gray eyes stare back. Then the corpse tilts his head with a quizzical groan. Tulio shoves past him.

Wiping black bile from his lips, Tulio gags at the odor. It's... It's _wrong._

But not to the hive. With that black matter clinging to his scruffy beard, to his sleeves, far fewer eyes watch him this time. Even though Tulio stands straighter, his steps smooth and frantic.

He slams the plane door open. Chel snaps awake. Miguel's head flies up from her lap, eyes wide and confused.

"T-Tulio? But you were... and I was..."

"Dreaming," Chel soothes. "It was just a dream."

Tulio gapes at Miguel. Miguel gapes back.

Oh.

Oh no.

Tulio's stomach churns again.

"We need to leave," he grinds out. "Now."

Chel scoops some cans into a pack and heaves up a bright red wrench. Miguel slings his guitar over his shoulder and, in bemusement, something a bit sturdier as a weapon. Tulio rolls his eyes and grabs a crowbar. It's all he needs. Really.

Chel stares right through him. Another bag of cans gets flung over his shoulder.

Their closest getaway just so happens to be a pale gray Mustang parked in the nearest hanger, because rich idiots once upon a time had stowed their toys away under the pretense the end of the world could be safely weathered from their bunkers and everything would be okay once the military shot all the poor sick people.

Chel hot wires it gleefully. Tulio watches her in envy, then frowns thoughtfully down at his hands. His fingers are surprisingly nimble when he flexes them. Miguel's hands itch for the steering wheel. Two against one, he's banished to the backseat.

By the time the Boneys realize what the hell is happening, Chel has already floored it. Not even a Boney can match that horsepower. The few dumb enough to try intercepting them wound up ran over, their brittle bones shot to shit. Miguel swings his baseball bat against the few snapping skulls that land inside the car. The other bone fragments left behind, still weakly buzzing, are also thrown out in great distaste.

The highway that takes a zombie horde hours to shuffle down flies by. At first Tulio marvels at the speed. Then his stomach heaves again.

When he ducks out the window, Chel squeals the Mustang to a halt. This time only something clear and sharp trickles out. Ugh.

Miguel rubs his back soothingly. Tulio hunches forward and mumbles an apology for all the awful things said last night. His partner's gentle hands never falter. Even Chel brushes back the loose strands from Tulio's face. Her hand lingers on his forehead. He blinks in bewilderment when it trails his face to brush under his jawbone. Miguel's hands freeze when Chel repeats the same process on him.

Tulio groans. "What's wrong now?"

"Nothing," she answers honestly. "Nothing at all."

The Mustang drives on.

Tulio believes Chel up until it starts raining. The convertible hardtop refuses to come up. Of course it does. Normally Tulio appreciates a free shower. This time he curls up miserably in his seat. He can't stop his stupid teeth from chattering.

Dawn lightens dark and miserable night into gray, dingy morning. He squints into the distance, where the great walls of the Living base loom larger and larger. For a moment he's relieved to have those walls between himself and the inevitable Boney horde. Then he belatedly remembers even corpses merit a 'shoot first, then shoot again.'

Tulio glances into the backseat. Miguel is scrunched up into a ball and somehow manages to look even paler than usual.

"C-Chel," he chatters out. "W-What... What next?"

Chel, squinting into the windshield, is no less soaked than they are. "F-First off, we find a place with a fucking roof."

"R-Roofs are nice," Miguel agrees.

The Mustang pulls off the main road into a street of houses. Chel squints at roof lines and pulls into the first with a chimney. She scrambles out to start picking at the lock. Tulio gently pulls her aside. Miguel throws his weight against it. A lock breaks as the door flies open.

"Oh," Chel mumbles. "Right."

Miguel sheepishly rubs at his shoulder. An afterlife of busting into human fortifications has one positive payoff.

"Thank you," she says graciously. He can't help but smile back.

Whoever had once lived here left no shortage of trashy magazines behind. Miguel ogles over those Chel doesn't turn into kindling. Once the fire is lit even he abandons the busty women and rippling pectorals. Tulio stares into the flames, just as mesmerized. Some faint instinct whispers fire means both food and danger, the chance of either a camp small enough to raid or a settlement that will mow him down like it has a thousand zombies before him.

For a moment Tulio basks in the heat. Then he and Miguel both scoot closer, shoulders touching. They barely notice when Chel scrambles upstairs with the promise to be right back.

Something soft plops onto his head. Tulio yanks the nightshirt off. He and Miguel turn upward. It's all the warning they have before Chel starts flinging clothes over the balcony.

"Put these on!" she calls down. "It feels so much better to get out of those wet clothes."

Tulio's jaw drops. Because Chel has already changed. Out of those wet, filthy clothes clinging to her form, she grins in an oversized shirt and cotton pants. Tulio uncomfortably plucks at the collar of his own soaking shirt and suddenly understands the appeal of changing clothes. Miguel happily stands up to drop his pants. Chel bites her lip. Then she squeaks an apology and darts for the bedrooms.

Tulio's numb, icy hands fumble at his buttons. Then he vigorously rubs them over the fire. He flexes his fingers, pleased when the dexterity from the night before makes its miraculous return. He peels out of his vest and shirt.

A hunter that prefers ambushing his prey from behind, Tulio is mostly free from the knife marks and bullet wounds bolder, stupider zombies take. Miguel pulls a face at his own marks, dabbing his sodden shirt at them. Crusty black bile scrubs off. The marks beneath are... surprisingly shallow, or oddly raised over. Miguel frowns and ghosts his fingers over his most recent wound, courtesy of Chel's knife. He picks at the oddly colored skin left behind, winces, and shrugs on one of those new oversized shirts.

An old reprimand sits on the tip of Tulio's tongue, something about not picking at scabs. He snorts at the stupidity and finishes changing. "We're decent, Chel."

She immediately rounds the corner and charges downstairs. She flings an armful of towels at them, then starts tearing into her bag of cans. Tulio rips his hair tie free and starts vehemently drying his hair. Miguel instead bundles himself up in a towel cocoon. Tulio snorts and starts drying the idiot's hair himself. Miguel moans and leans into his touch.

Tulio sucks in a sharp breath, hand grasping at his chest. Miguel peers back in concern. The moment passes quick as it came. So Tulio plasters on a careless smile and purposefully frizzes his partner's head up into a frizz cloud.

Chel stabs through her can of choice. She digs in. Miguel and Tulio stare after her. They innocently turn back to the fire when her knowing gaze catches them.

"Something you boys need?"

"Nope," Tulio blurts out half-truthfully. His stomach is ambivalent. Better a strange emptiness than repeating last night.

"No," Miguel mumbles far too late. He is a terrible liar even by zombie standards.

Chel wordlessly slides a can across the coffee table. Tulio can't read the label but there is no mistaking that picture of mashed potatoes, pale and bland as human food can come. Miguel pouts at it anyway. So she wrenches a knife through its lid and dunks in a spoon. Miguel snatches it up. His partners watch him shovel it down in morbid fascination. Tulio, closer to the carnage, eventually scoots away. At least being splattered in potatoes is miles above their usual dinner mess.

"Now what?" he wonders when Miguel devolves to licking the spoon.

Chel throws back her arms, yawning widely. "I go upstairs and get some sleep, so... I can reach El Dorado sometime later today without feeling Dead."

Miguel finally puts his spoon down. "You don't look Dead!" he blurts out. "Not at all! The.. The exact opposite, really."

Chel stares back. Tulio catches himself doing the same. In oversized human clothes, his complexion disguised by the fire's warm glow, Miguel looks almost _Living._ Almost. The gray sheen cast by his eyes reveals his true nature.

Mutely, Chel stands. She takes them both by the hands and tugs them upstairs. They have no choice but to follow her into the master bedroom. They gape at the marvel awaiting them there.

"Wyoming King," Tulio breathes, the name dredged up from the depths of memory. It's maybe even bigger than that.

"That's night a bed!" Miguel protests. "That's a... a small island!"

Chel flings herself onto it, near swallowed by the duvet. Miguel lunges after her.

Tulio stares. A part of himself, louder by the second, insists _this_ is the dream and to not fuck it up. Whatever that means.

He takes a single step forward, before remembering himself. "Chel," he mumbles. "W-We... _I_ don't-"

"We're safest together, right?" she breaks in.

"Yes," Miguel agrees gamely. "Yes, we are."

Tulio lingers a moment more. When Miguel grins and Chel pats the wide open space beside her, his willpower crumbles. Gingerly he scoots onto the edge of the far side, above the covers. Chel naturally burrows between them. She is safest between two bodyguards, after all, and the one Living heat source between all three of them. Miguel, mesmerized by that stupid duvet, nestles in too. Of course he does.

Tulio stiffly lays at the edge of this, ready to slip onto the floor the moment Chel actually falls asleep and Miguel... does whatever the hell he did last night. Tulio decides Chel's breathing is a good indicator of her conscious state. He fixates on that, over the crackling fire downstairs or the patter of rain on the roof.

His eyes drift close. Just for a while. From this angle nothing more interesting than the plain white ceiling.

There is darkness. There is the soft patter of rain and Chel's steady breathing.

There is peace.

Somewhere down the line, there is color. Vivid green and gold. Pictures. Sounds. Whole conversations that unfurl.

Tulio is stranded on a boat with his partner and a pale horse. Then they're all wandering in some jungle before they stumble across Chel and a whole city of gold. Not all of it is pleasant. Tzkl stalks into his dreams as a man vicious as any Boney. The giant stone cat stomping after them spews noxious black bile. But the dizzying visions end on a good note. Maybe. He and Miguel never quite catch Chel, galloping away on that pale horse.

Tulio blinks his eyes open before they do. He squints into the warm, golden afternoon light from the window. When had he curled up on his side? His brow furrows in thought. Chel's snoring sure isn't helping his concentration.

Tulio rolls over. Chel is wide awake, nails dug into the covers. Her eyes bulge out at Miguel.

The snoring, rosy Miguel, drooling into his pillow.

...Tulio is dreaming. All right then. He patiently waits to wake up.

He does not.

"What. The. _Fuck."_

Miguel jerks awake, green eyes fluttering open. "W-What's-"

His partners tackle him. Neither Tulio or Chel can stop their prying fingers prying at his throbbing pulse or his forehead, warm all its own, or from bombarding him in questions. Miguel, just as confused as they are, gropes dumbly at his chest. A sound, somewhere between sob and laugh, starts blubbering up inside him.

It pushes Tulio over his limit. He seizes Miguel by the shoulders, locking his lips to his. For one moment he fears the Hunger is out to snuff this precious, impossible new life.

Then Miguel kisses him back, just as fierce, and a surge of emotions far more thrilling tell fear to fuck off.

Tulio wants that sensation to last a lifetime. Eventually the pressure of such Living forces them to break apart, chests heaving. "Y-You're such a terrible zombie y-you _came back to life._ H-How is that even..."

Tulio trails off as Miguel lays a tender hand against his chest. Tulio stops breathing as he realizes that pounding in his heart isn't from Miguel's chest or Chel's. Then he starts hyperventilating, because breathing is no longer optional.

Tulio swoons back in a dead faint. Chel's arms catch him. Her lips brush against his forehead before he loses consciousness for the time being.

Waking up doesn't make it any less real.

* * *

Chel's had impossible hopes for a few days now. Why not? Her boys were already impossible. They had been proof the Dead could regain their metaphorical humanity, represented a potential total cure in the future. She'd just... expected something a little more dramatic than Miguel snorting awake with a pulse before they can even reach El Dorado. Less than two minutes later, their partnership is down its last zombie when Miguel's kiss literally jolts Tulio's heart back into high gear.

Yeah. There's no leaving bed after that. Not for hours. Chel is sure she can make it days, but higher priorities await. Like the Boneys hunting them. And informing El Dorado that the cure for the zombie apocalypse is human connection, and that love plays a pretty damn huge factor in that.

In the early days anyone seeking entrance to El Dorado had been forced to strip and prove a lack of zombie bites. Considering the certain scar Tulio now hosts above his collarbone, and Miguel over his right ankle, this would lead to conversations best saved for the Chief. Fortunately one of the last great innovations before the collapse of civilization was an eye-scanner that detects even the slow burn infections. Chel passes with flying colors. After several heart-pounding moments and sweaty grins, so do her boys. Which will only prove their cure.

Since the insane commander known ominously as the Priest was dragged under a horde some years back, El Dorado has been only in the Chief's capable hands. Tannabok is a good man, an honest man. One that dragged the base brought from the brink the Priest led them to, after instituting military rule and ruthlessly purging the ranks. Of course he's more than willing to grant her an audience.

Chel was reported missing days ago by Mari, who has indeed make it out alive, for she was last seen led off by a zombie.

"Yeah," Chel murmurs. "About that zombie."

Miguel calmly rolls up his pant leg. A darkness lingers to the tooth marks there no human bite can explain.

The Chief, more personally known as Tannabok, swoons into his chair. "I'm listening," he croaks out.

Tannabok listens so well their soldiers are more than ready for the Boneys that swarm their walls later that night. In this fight El Dorado has an ally, for an army of corpses attack the Boneys from behind, swinging blunt objects and groaning audible curses that prove their side. Their leader wears a dead man's face. Only that is a lie, for Xaya is merely Dead.

The Boneys are slaughtered without remorse, mowed down by human gunfire from the front and tore apart by corpses from behind. There is nothing left in the Boneys to redeem, their humanity sloughed away with their old names and old lives. Chel's big brother stalks through the crowd. Behind him are grim-faced zombies, all last seen dragged off alive and screaming. Tzkl is swallowed by their ranks, bones smashed to where he is only dust to be disdainfully thrown into the pyre.

"The school," Miguel murmurs grimly. He need explain no further.

When only clean-up remains, Chel scrambles from her partners and fearlessly into Xaya's filthy, frigid arms. Eventually his arms fumble around her.

"Sh... Ch... Chel."

Chel grins into his gore-stained shoulder. "Welcome back, big brother."

The old world does not return as the Dead heal and remember. There are billions dead and millions still Dead. Whole nations swallowed by a darkness not even love can ever penetrate, survive only as memory.

Those who crawl themselves up from that void, to blink and stumble into the sunlight, are also not unscathed. Miguel and Tulio are devout vegetarians. Chel takes up the practice too, for her partners pale whenever they see flesh on her plate. Sometimes for hours they will stare out at nothing, lost to time or the lives of before, and must be gently guided back to themselves. Miguel is prone to peering suspiciously behind him and leaping away from odd shadows. Tulio eases into their caresses, but freezes if their lips so much as brush around his neck, hands flying up to his scar. Then Miguel will miserably huddle into himself.

Then there are the nightmares. From all three of them. Chel's are near exclusively composed of her family. They chopped her grandpa's leg off to try staving off the infection and only subjected him to the slow, agonizing change. Her grandma died wheezing from a mundane sickness, for the hemorrhaging hospitals could spare nothing for the old and weak. In other dreams the zombie who tears into her dad's throat has Miguel's face, or it is Tulio who leads the horde that swallows her mom.

Her partners' dull second lives haunt them into their third. They awake begging forgiveness from victims long devoured. They weep for nameless faces exploded by gunfire or ton off by the nascent Boney festering beneath.

On the longest nights, the darkest nights, it is not their second lives they dream of.

The ending of their first lives is the one story they will never fully spill to her. Chel pieces that together herself from pleas whimpered in sleep and fragments of confessions. Imagination and personal experience fill in the rest.

One night, Chel dreams it herself.

_Her partners run, them against a faceless horde. One is nimble enough to skitter around the corpses in the street, the ones that grope hungrily after him. The other is not._

_By the time the other swings his crowbar down, it is already too late._

_For a time the chase continues. Blood loss and spreading numbness slow them down. The injured curses, begs, weeps for his partner to run. His protests are loudly hushed. His partner tugs him defiantly on until he can run no longer. The injured is dragged to the shelter of a dumpster. It is a poor hiding place and will not cover them long._

_"P-Please," sobs one. "Do it."_

**_"Never."_ **

_"Please!" A beat. "L-Leave me then. J-Just..."  
_

_His partner squeezes him tightly, muffling his cries into his shoulder. "Shush, partner. It will be all right. Do you hear me? We'll get out of this one. Just like we always do."_

_He mumbles assurances and platitudes until his partner stops struggling against him. It's surrender. It's clinging to all he has left. It's slipping through his fingers._

_As the moans of the horde grow louder, the partner whispers, louder and louder. The man in his arms has gone still. Too still. "I-I'll keep you safe. Do you hear me? I'll keep you safe. I... I lo-"_

_Teeth, still warm, sink into where they had once worshiped the crook of his neck. The man left jerks back, gaping at bloodied mouth and gray eyes. Empty, empty eyes._

_For a moment he almost surrenders. Then the man snarls and kicks him back. The new corpse stares vacuously at him, head tilting._

_With a possessive snarl, he rounds on the horde coming up fast behind them. This is **his** kill!_

_He fights ferociously, with lingering vitality in his limbs and his lover's blood just drying his lips. It is enough to make the Dead draw uncertainly back._

_Then the second corpse staggers up. The first one slouches, perfectly placid. The horde sniff and groan in dismay._

_They shamble off, two stronger._

Chel jerks awake, heart pounding. Next to her Miguel and Tulio stir in uneasy dreams.

Tenderly, she kisses their brows. "You did it," she murmurs to them. "You hear me? You _got him out."_

Her partners twitch. Their faces slacken as they ease into gentler sleep. If only for tonight.

Chel crawls over them both, to soak up their warmth. Lulled by their beating hearts, she drifts off too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book version of Warm Bodies includes a zombie protagonist with a vivid, eloquent imagination already managing fractured sentences. This eventually kindles into a strange restlessness that incites a hunt way outside of normal feeding schedule, leading to a run-in with his human love interest. I love how it implies the love interest was less of a catalyst than just accelerating a process our angsty zombie did on his own. Miguel, being Miguel, manages to get far further into this before stumbling across Chel :p
> 
> The corpses of Warm Bodies are indeed capable, through love and connection, of reviving from the Dead. They are also capable of degenerating into a hive mind of Boneys that are literal personifications of stagnation and decay. In the book they do indeed have a 'church' and 'school' to keep R's colony in line. Tzekel-Kan, who was almost an asshole human commander in this, made a far more zealous Boney.
> 
> Julie, the human love interest of canon, makes a few attempts at guessing R's full name before just calling him 'R.' It's implied by the author his full human name is very uncommon and so unlikely to be guessed. Given how common 'Miguel' is, Chel didn't need to try too many times ; )


	4. (L)adyhawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel and Tulio, Tulio and Miguel, still partners in crime. Even though communication is a little hard these days, what with one being a hawk by day and the other wolf by night. That's what they get for conning in the wrong town.
> 
> Fortunately for them, one land's curse is another's divinity.
> 
> Or: a crossover with Ladyhawke.

Today is a good day. A very good day.

Tulio gleefully dances around his gold pile. _Their_ gold pile.

"Tons of gold for you, hey! Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of-"

"One more roll!" snarls that stiffed, grizzled old sailor.

Tulio flicks his eyes upward to the shape circling over head. Then he appraises the gold still dangling from this sailor's ear. There is still wool to be fleeced from this sucker. IF only he can push enough buttons. "Uh, guys, you're broke! You've got nothing left to bet with!"

"Oh yeah?" retorts the sailors. "I've got _this!"_

Tulio sneers at the yellowed paper shoved his way. "A map?"

The gambler waves it enticingly under his nose. "A map to the wonders of the New World!"

Tulio is not dumb enough to take the map from him. Not when he has perfectly good pile of gold right here, thank you very much. He starts shoveling the pile his way. "Peewee, you've gotta be-"

An ungodly scream pierces the air. Even Tulio instinctively ducks against the golden shape that dives from above like the wrath of God. The gambler throws his hands up over his head. Talons snatch their true prize.

"M-My map!"

Tulio shakes a fist skyward. "God damn it, Miguel!"

The gamblers furiously round on him. "You trained that hawk!" "That was on purpose!" "He's in cahoots with a bird!"

Tulio plasters on a sweaty smile, cuts his losses, and bolts for it. He scrambles up for the rooftops. His partner is thoughtful enough to dive bomb the crowd one last time. Not like that does shit for the furious bull waiting for Tulio on the other side. By sheer luck Tulio vaults from yet another wall directly into the barrel below. It's a safe space to lie low for a bit.

Then his hiding place starts moving. He bites back a curse as it gets loading onto ship. No matter. He'll just jump out and run for the dock.

On three.

One, two, three!

Tulio throws all his weight against the lid. Again and again, until he works up a furious sweat. His heart hammers furiously in his chest.

Oh.

Oh no.

Overhead, the sun continues its relentless course.

* * *

Sailing forth into the New World for God and glory, the eyes of Cortes' carefully chosen disciplines should be fixated faithfully on the horizon or wistfully back toward home. Instead their bewildered gazes are craned skyward. The seagulls that usually circle the rigging have ganged up on the handsome golden hawk frantically wheeling and ducking around them. Every time the flock chases the hawk off, it keeps flying back for more, even as Spain vanishes on the horizon. And always to the flagship.

"It's a sign," mutters a sailor. "It's gotta be."

Cortes' dark eyes track the bird. "Search the ship for stowaways."

His obey. It does not take them long to discover a sniveling man hiding in a pickle barrel. His clapped in irons and dragged before him. The man's stammering attempt at defending himself fall silent. For a moment he peers up at Cortes with the same fearful dread all his crew for him. His blue eyes flick up the hawk circling overhead, then to the sun sinking into the horizon.

"You're one of the Bishop of Aquila's little misfits, aren't you?"

Some men recognize the city name. The stowaway's silent shudder is for something else entirely.

Cortes hums. "A fine Christian. Unorthodox in his practice." He to cocks an eyebrow skyward. "Let us see how successful you two turned out."

Cortes orders the stowaway released from his irons and thrown into the brig. The iron grate is held up. The crew blinks down in bewilderment. Their prisoner gazes pas them in dread. Cortes cocks his blunderbuss and aims it at him.

With a heartbroken cry, the hawk dives. He flutters willingly into the brig, golden wings spread protectively over the man down there. His eyes are not yellow and fierce, but emerald and intelligent. The crew shudder.

Cortes orders the grate slammed and locked. His men obey. He peers disdainfully through them.

"My crew was as carefully chosen as the disciples of Christ. And I will not tolerate stowaways, especially those who thought to slink off to find succor among the heathen magic there. Your punishment was God given, delivered by one of His finest bishops. When we put into Cuba to resupply, you will be put back on the first ship bound for home, and returned into proper custody." Cortes rounds on his crew. "Because you are my disciples, men, I expect you to obey me as faithfully as you do Christ. I will say this only once on the matter of our stowaways; death is too lenient a sentence."

His crew murmur compliance and carry on, even if they have no idea what their commander means.

Not until sunset.

The black wolf down in that hold snarls up at the men who try delivering supper, blue eyes blazing and teeth bone-white against his shadowy fur. The man beside him, blond and bearded, murmurs soothingly until his ear until he stops growling.

For breakfast, the dark-haired man peers blearily up at them. The hawk on his shoulder primly ruffles his feathers.

So repeats the process. By day a hawk flutters restlessly around the brig and one man bangs his head against the wall. At night, another man hosts conversations with his canine cellmate, receiving only woofs and growls in response.

One morning both men and beasts are gone, alongside a longboat. And, curiously enough, Altivo. It's assumed their stowaways took him as fresh meat.

The crew is relieved to see such... misfortune go. They believe such strangeness capsized or starved at sea. Its puts their hearts at ease.

This is a time of gold, glory, and God. Well, the distant sort of God. Magic is best left forgotten, unloved and unmourned.

* * *

Chel scrambles to return her stolen tribute before the gods make it up the front stairway. They've already gamely played along with her lie. She does _not_ want to find out what face Lord Tulio will show if he discovers her lingering in his temple. Even the Hawk God's current form has a wicked beak and talons that can easily tear her eyes out.

She's not up the back entrance fast enough. Cradling the golden idol to her head, Chel ducks out of sight.

Tzekel-Kan proposes a reverent ceremony at dawn and Chief Tannabok a glorious feast for that very night. Lord Tulio graciously concedes both is good, on the condition the morning sacrifice be moved to much more auspicious noon. Lord Miguel imperiously chirps his agreement. The strongest men in the city voice their obedience and grant the gods their privacy.

"Miguel," the other god mumbles. "Miguel. This... This might just actually-"

Feathers rustle. Chel clamps back a scream as a golden shape whirls above her head. Plastering on her brightest smile, she strides out of hiding, idol held up reverently before her.

"Don't mind me, my lords," she squeaks out. "It is only me, Chel, your devoted follower, returning your tribute. Just as you ordered."

"Yes," Lord Tulio says after a beat. "You. Our priestess."

Chel bites her lip to keep her jaw from dropping. She swiftly reunites the head to its body, sneaking a glance at her gods. Lord Tulio sits up taller in his throne. Lord Miguel, perched atop his, puffs out his feathers to maximum size. Were it not for his curved beak and black talons, she might almost call him adorable.

"My only wish is to serve the gods," she reminds them. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Lord Miguel swivels his head to the traditional depiction of the Dual Gods astride a Feathered Serpent rather than a Horse God. Chel frowns up at the stele, unable to interpret this omen. His partner furrows his brows.

"Er... Lord Miguel is requesting... more proper garments?" An affirmative chirp. "Yes. Quite right. Lord Miguel wishes the proper attire for tonight."

"...Do you wish the same, Lord Tulio?"

His grin is sharp in the growing dark. "I'm good."

Chel hurries back. She stumbles at the sight awaiting her.

Illuminated in twilight are the silhouettes of the Dual Gods, just as she's always envisioned in them. Then she blinks. The moment's gone. A black shadow slips from Lord Tulio's throne. Lord Miguel, still man-shaped and awkwardly perched atop his throne, tumbles forward with a squawk. Chel rushes forward. It is his partner that cushions his fall.

"Oof," Lord Miguel puffs, before scrambling off the shape he now sits astride. "Oh, thank you, Tulio."

The Wolf God licks his face. Then his bright blue eyes fixate on Chel. She casts her gaze down, impertinent smile falling from her face. "Here is your clothing, Lord Miguel."

"J-Just Miguel, please," the god says awkwardly. "I'm.. I'm not actually-" Lord Tulio huffs. "I'm not actually... on such formal terms with my... priestesses. If you're comfortable with such familiarity, of course!"

Chel shakes a god's hand and agrees to simply call him Miguel. Then he pouts at his partner. The Wolf God sighs and offers a paw in surrender. Chel gamely shakes that too. This is how Lord Tulio simply becomes 'Tulio.'

Introductions aside, Miguel happily drops his pants. Chel's fingers itch to help him. Tulio, currently lacking opposable thumbs, requires her assistance a little more. She adornhs his pointed ears in golden earrings and drapes a glittering medallion over his neck. By the time the Wolf God is situated, his partner is sadly dressed.

Manoa takes its gods changing shape in stride. Because one does not question divinity. The crowd stifle sighs of relief when Miguel downs his first libation and Tulio happily tilts his head back so his partner can funnel the next down his gullet. Chief Tannabok's smile loses its frantic edge.

Shifted shapes aside, her gods are subtle in their graces. The Horse God and Wolf God race each other around the square at speeds no man can match. Altivo prances over the coals. Tulio, emboldened, leaps over the flames. Those around him gracefully wrinkle their noses at the stink of singed fur. Miguel poses and preens before his adoring crowd, holding many in his thrall.

As a god-appointed priestess, Chel uses her newfound authority to ensure their first night returned to the world one Manoa shall never forget. She amplifies their wonders by calling up dancers and drummers, vivid puppets and sparklers. Altivo downs golden apples like a bottomless pit. His riders are not far beyond in wine consumption. The goblets flow like blood on the Dark Days.

When most of Manoa has stumbled home or fallen asleep on the tables, Chel rounds up enough acolytes to get her gods ushered into bed. Altivo snorts when she grabs at his bridle, dark eyes fierce, and gallops into the night. The Dual Gods are more amiable to being dumped into the waiting tub. His traditional garb filthy, Chel makes the decision to change Miguel back into the loose red shirt and pants earlier. Tulio's sopping fur is thoroughly toweled.

The acolytes gently place the Wolf God in bed. He rolls over onto his back, paws up in the air, and promptly starts snoring. Miguel mumbles when he's dumped in too.

Chel shoos the acolytes from the temple. Once they're gone she goes for a final check on the gods.

Green eyes blearily crack open. "Hey Ch-Sh-Shel?"

"Yes, Miguel?"

"We're n' really... really... We're n' really godsh." Says the extremely drunk deity who was a hawk hours before.

"Sure," Chel agrees, just to soothe him into sleep.

"We're... We're _curshed."_

Chel's mind grinds to a halt. She tries and fails to remember overt displays of power beyond the twilight transformation. Miguel blinks drowsily at her.

"G'night, Shel."

"...Good night, Miguel."

With a relieved smile the idiot drops back down, burying his face into his partner's thick fur. Chel rushes to the couch in the next room and struggles to control her hyperventilating. The 'gods' snore obliviously on.

Chel has not been miraculously delivered from execution. She's abetted two blasphemers in sacrilege. Tzekel-Kan's gonna make up a whole new punishment for them all if they caught.

_If._

Her mind races. When she finally drifts off her sleep is light and restless. The tortured groan at dawn startles her awake.

"Fucking dawn," Tulio's voice grumbles from the room over. "The fur and the dog breath, I've learned to live with. Never being able to sleep off a hangover is-"

"Good morning."

Spotting her in the doorway, Tulio makes a belated attempt to sit up straight in bed, lowering his tone. "G-Good morning, mortal." His hair, escaped from its pony tail, is an unholy nightmare. The golden hawk nestled in the pillows beside him buries his head deeper under his wing with a miserable cheep.

Chel crosses her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. "Save it for the high priest, honey. You're gonna need it."

Tulio tries to sputter denials and bluster with threats of striking her dead for the impertinence. Her deadpan stare never wavers. He caves less than a minute after trying. "H-How did you even..." He turns on his partner. "Miguel, what did you _do?"_ His partner peeks one green eye out and burrows back into his wing. "You know that little voice people have, the one that tells them to quit while they're ahead? _You don't have one!"_

The hawk moans at his outburst. Even Tulio rubs at his temples.

"Don't you worry about me, boys. 'My only wish is to serve the gods,' remember?"

Blue eyes narrow. "How?"

Chel flicks a hand at one very hungover hawk. "...Really? I'm supposed to serve _gods._ Omnipotent, put-together deities. You don't think it's in my own best interest to keep you two idiots looking good until you slink back to... wherever you came from? I don't want in. I _am_ in. And you're taking me with you."

Miguel shuffles his talons, head emerging from his wing. Tulio guiltily rubs his neck. Their bargain is struck. Before Tulio can offer his hand, Miguel sticks out his wing. Chel shakes it first. Fortunately the sacrifice being postponed until noon gives her time to clean these idiots up and learn the parameters of their... condition.

"So, a curse?"

Miguel bobs his head. Then he starts tearing into the roast peccary brought up as part of breakfast. Chel focuses on the partner currently capable of giving complete sentences.

"Wrong place at the wrong time." Miguel whips out his wing. Tulio rubs the back of his head. "Gah! Okay, Miguel, okay! We _conned_ in the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought wandering a bit further north would get us free of the wanted posters. Turns out it got us arrested right when the local bishop was looking for... test subjects."

Chel shudders. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Tulio shrugs, burying a hand into Miguel's feathers. "The Bishop of Aquila was looking for... pairs to test his little punishment. Miguel and I came with the added bonus of being foreign criminals." His fingers trail to scratch under the hawk's chin. "Miguel got the better bargain, though. Eyes in the sky _and_ prime human hours. All I get is people chasing with me torches and pitchforks at night. Do you know how difficult it is to do anything _fun_ in broad daylight?"

Chel bites her lip. Compared to some curses inflicted by her gods in the stories, such a fate does not sound too terrible. Not until Miguel combs his beak in fond exasperation through his partner's hair. How can it feel, to never face a loved one as yourself, to never be able to hold full conversations or take their hand?

But no curse is eternal in Manoa's stories. "Is there a way too..."

"We'd have to face the old bastard on _'a day without night and a night without day.'_ " Tulio snorts. "Like that'd ever happen."

Chel frowns. As an acolyte herself she knows pretty damn well about the finer workings of the cosmos. "An eclipse, then? A total one, from the sound of it."

Tulio's jaw drops. Miguel hops hopefully closer. "S-So there's actually a chance we could..." Her forlorn expression says all they need to about the rarity of such an event. They slump forward. "Ah, well. Probably wouldn't have worked on us anyway."

"Why not?"

Blue eyes slide over to their partner. The hawk preens self-consciously. "We were close to perfection, but not close enough. He wanted to... to do more than just trap people in animal skins for half a day."

Chel considers a hawk contributing what he can to their conversation to the wolf that loves to party. "Ah. Sounds like you two got lucky."

Blue and green eyes appraise each other. "Yeah. We kinda did. Better than the poor suckers this curse was really intended for." Tulio smirks. "Hell, we busted out his prisons because of it."

For a while their conversation drifts off god cons and curses, back to days long before they stumbled into each other. Miguel chirps or squawks to let them know what he thinks of his representation in Tulio's tales. He'll pantomime stories Tulio's left out or scratch out short sentences with a talon. Chel has such a blast she forgets they're all in mortal peril. She barely gets Tulio into proper godly garb before Tzekel-Kan arrives to fetch the litter. All Miguel needs to do is hold his head a certain way, and he looks regal.

Only when they're marching down to the altar above Xibalba does it occur to Chel she forgot to tell these two exactly what Tzekel-Kan's reverent ceremony entails.

When their human sacrifice is unveiled, Tulio freezes in horror.

Miguel shrieks like a demon. Tzekel-Kan stops swinging his cudgel. He drops it to throw his arms up over his head when the hawk next attacks him.

"This is not a proper tribute," Tulio intones ominously.

Miguel at last flutters back, beak and talons stained red. The altar bleeds only with what drips from Tzekel-Kan's arms and face, when he stoops forward to grovel his apology.

Chief Tannabok's more sensible offer of gold is far better received. On the parade back to their temple, Tulio does a happy dance in his litter, Miguel gleefully bobbing his head from his perch beside him. Chel, as their priestess, rides beside from upon Altivo.

While her partners conspire in the litter above, Chel ogles Altivo. Sensing her stare, he turns slightly her way. His eyes are dark and intelligent. Too intelligent.

"You're not cursed too, are you?"

He snorts disdainfully.

"That's good."

Far too late does it occur to Chel the first option is still very much viable. Altivo, unlike his riders, has not confirmed his divinity one way or the other.

Not that Chel has much time to ponder this mystery. First comes the details of getting their escape ship started and the gold sorted in the temple for the time being. Then Miguel soars over the streets to discover Tzekel-Kan attempting to 'cleanse' them in reparation for his earlier 'misreading of the heavens.' Chima and his warriors are not spared his talons or furious cries.

There is power in blood. All Manoa knows this.

* * *

Three days fly by. During the day Tulio celebrates the sights with Miguel. His partner happily preens storks the size of giraffes and sits through whole turtle ferry rides despite his ability to fly. His beak stubbornly sets up those bone-sticks in the square all on his own, though Tulio and Chel help bring that vision to life quicker. Then the dancers of the pole invite them up to soar beside their partner. Miguel ducks and wheels around them in sheer, unbridled joy.

Even nights in Manoa aren't so bad. Here Tulio isn't mistaken or a dog or chased as a feral beast. Servants scramble to fill his every order, though it falls on Chel or Miguel to clarify any misunderstandings. When tired, he sprawls out in a proper bed for his time in years. What Chel and Miguel do in the dark can happen away from his comfy mattress, thank you very much.

Upon sunrise, when Miguel soars off to check the boat's progress, Tulio and Chel enjoy the perks of the morning shift.

Tulio and Miguel have forgotten the joys of sharing things that aren't a binding curse. Their new partner reminds them of the positives.

On their final night in paradise, they're treated to a play. Tulio watches beside Miguel from his very own throne, tail wagging furiously. The boys playing them are adorable little buggers, even though the one playing him is sweltering under his furred cloak. In the end that and the feathered cape get shrugged off by the other kid. They both wear animal masks through the whole production, but never once act like beasts. They strut around and give orders like they think gods should act.

Manoa believes their curse to be stylistic choice in their shapes, that they're in complete control at all times. It's oddly flattering.

Once they both catch Chel's eye. She's helping children pet and climb atop Altivo. Her smile flips even a wolf's stomach. When she shyly waves, Miguel grins like an idiot and waves right back. Tongue lolling shamelessly out in his own wide smile, Tulio raises a paw.

Then Tzekel-Kan's temple collapses, as a stone behemoth with glowing green eyes rips itself free. Miguel squeals. Tulio whines.

From somewhere in the shadows, the high priest cackles. "Now everyone will know the truth of your divinity!"

Miguel stumbles over his own two legs. Tulio, far more graceful on four, nudges him on.

"Come on!" Chel cries from atop Altivo.

Miguel takes her hand and is pulled astride. Off the white stallion charges, the jade jaguar stomping behind. The black wolf, not so obvious a target, slinks into the night.

Tzekel-Kan's eyes are green and glowing. He's crouched over, clawed hands swiping at invisible targets, and laughing in absolute delight. Tulio's fur bristles. The air around this psycho crackles with incredible power, perhaps even greater than the kind that wrought his curse.

But it is not Tulio he hunts. His distant gaze is fixated only on Miguel, who humiliated him before all the city, who cast down human sacrifice forever. Tulio is currently beneath his notice. He is mortal. He is no more powerful than his partner.

A mortal wolf is still a wolf.

Tulio springs.

A gargled cry cuts off.

The night turns red.

There is power in blood. All Manoa knows this. Perhaps the priest fights in the stone idol he brought to life. Perhaps the Jaguar God itself possesses that avatar.

Tulio races as fast as he can. By the time the final rumble falls silent, he only just explodes into the same square where three days ago a man was nearly sacrificed in his name. Now Altivo and his partners grimly stare over the edge as the last bits of jade tumble into Xibalba in pieces. Tulio nearly bounds to them. Licking his wet muzzle, he instead prowls to the trickle of a nearby stream. Gray is lighting the horizon.

Only after his mouth is thoroughly rinsed does he tackle Miguel, smothering him in kisses. Chel laughs and leans over to squish his furry cheeks. Tulio licks her too. Then he tries dividing between the two. They're a laughing, giddy pile as the moon dips the horizon and the sun rises up to meet it.

At true twilight, Tulio flexes his paws out into human fingers. He twines hands with his partners, to savor one of two moments each day when everything is as it should be.

The moment lasts eternity.

And keeps on ticking.

Tulio cracks an eye open. So does Chel. They survey Miguel, flat on his ass with wolf slobber drying on one cheek and wet kisses on the other. He squints up at a sun he has not beheld in years with human eyes. He flexes his trembling hands. And sobs, squeezing his partners close.

Tulio should be weeping too. Instead he splutters up at a perfectly ordinary dawn. "B-But the curse-"

A whinnying laugh cuts him off. They gape at Altivo, who tosses his head and prances ominously off into the morning.

"Oh," Chel mumbles, soft and wondering.

"Oh?" Tulio demands. Stupid cryptic, creepy horse.

 _"Oh,"_ Miguel breathes, green eyes wide.

"What do you mean- oomph!"

Miguel's lips lock against his own. Tulio surges forward in an action his muscles have never forgotten. The last of his rational protests fly out the window.

When Chief Tannabok creeps half with half the city behind him to check upon the idol's demise, three partners break apart. Not that they're hiding anything. Laughing and well on the way to being debauched, Miguel stumbles to his feet.

"Chief Tanni! Chief Tanni! We've decided to stay!"

"We have?" Tulio wonders, though with the psycho priest gone he's not necessarily opposed to-

"Forever!"

_"What?"_

"Forever," Chel confirms, lacing her hand with his. "Or at least a few good centuries."

_"WHAT?"_

The morning passes in a dream. The most impossible, miraculous dream.

Until smoke stains the horizon. This time, Miguel and Tulio do not cower. Not that Chel ever would.

There is power in blood. All Manoa knows this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Ladyhawke, the Bishop of Aquila curses Lady Isabeau and her lover Etienne because she understandably did not return his affections. It would not surprise me in the least if he dabbled in magic long before their curse to 'perfect' it. Our idiots get off a little lighter because their humanity is more intact during the transformations. Isabeau and Etienne aren't so lucky.
> 
> For those familiar with another one shot of mine, you are right in thinking they have similar vibes. This was the one conceived of first. The angle I had for that one shot was very different originally, but due to some heroic idiocy on Miguel's part came to have some of the same beats. Some. Miguel and Tulio are a little more bloody of their take down of Tzekel-Kan here.


	5. The (U)nicorn's Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel has a secret. One he's more than happy to take to the grave, if Tulio is there by his side.
> 
> Impending execution changes his priorities a little. And once this secret's out, there's no going back.
> 
> Or: a crossover with The Unicorn's Secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Unicorn's Secret is a legit (though obscure) series of children's books from the early 2000s. As a 'U' series, it's fair game :p

Before Tulio can quite reach town, he runs into the brightly colored wagons arranged in the fields outside. His interest piques. Despite his aching feet, his gaze lingers. Not Romani or mercheros. The sheer number of white and pale gray horses grazing among their animals outs their identity. Ramblers. They've gotta be Ramblers.

Tulio wanders in closer. He's rubbed enough shoulders among the other nomadic groups to have picked up the bare bones of their societies. Ramblers, despite their vibrant shows and amiable healers, do _not_ open up about themselves. Hell, he doesn't even know what they prefer to call themselves. 'Ramblers' is a term to describe that small group of weirdos that aren't the other sorts, that kind that can wander out of the country for years at a time.

Tulio slips his way into the crowd of townsfolk. They've gathered to watch the musicians advertising for the performance tonight. His eye falls on fashions he vaguely recognizes from peoples north of Spain, repurposed in bright colors and however their wearers damn want to. All the musicians are young, the oldest only his age. They smile the wide, persuasive smiles of entertainers.

Except for the blond passionately strumming away at his lute, eyes closed to all eyes. Sure, not all the notes sound right, but he lacks in technical skill he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. His fellow musicians roll their eyes in fond exasperation as he veers way off melody. Tulio's stomach somersaults.

When the song finally stops, the flutist must gently prod the blond from his mania. He jerks to a halt, green eyes snapping open. He lets himself be tugged to his feet, bowing and finally facing with his audience with a smile so sheepish they applaud a little louder. His gaze meets Tulio's.

For a heartbeat the blond gawks. Then he beams bright enough to light up the twilight. Tulio tries to smoothly smile back. Instead his suaveness veers straight into his idiot grin. Coughing, he manages a wave. The blond waves effusively back.

Subtle they are not. The other musicians catch on to their mutual staring. They frown Tulio's way. Even the flutist, a slip of a girl no older than sixteen, manages to seem scolding. The drummer slings an arm over the blond's shoulders, whispering something. The blond's expression fades. When he's firmly ushered off by the musicians, he manages a finale smile for Tulio over his shoulder, wistful and apologetic.

Tulio stays for the real performance. Jugglers and fire dancers flash by him. His gaze instead searches for golden hair and eyes green as the deep summer. Despite his vague attention, he still cheers extra loud for the performers, tosses what remains of his paltry coin in the direction.

"Y-You stayed."

Tulio bites his tongue, not surprised to discover his mystery man has sneaked up from behind. "Of course I did. You sold me on it."

The blond winces. "S-Sorry about that back there. I'm getting better with my playing."

Tulio snorts. Together they drift deeper into the crowd, hiding in plain sight. The audience is too entranced to pay their whispering much mind. "You... You were perfect."

Green eyes stare ahead, to the limber youth now mounting the tightrope strung above the clearing. "I wanted to be an acrobat, but _no._ My balance isn't good enough."

Tulio blinks. This young man sneaked up on him without a sound. "You seem plenty graceful to me."

The Rambler puffs out his chest. "You should've met me a few months ago. I was still.... getting my bearings, as it were." He frowns up at the tightrope walker. "So what if most here had the advantage of growing up on... on the tightrope. The fact I've come this far this fast means I'm just as good as any of them!"

"That's the spirit." An awkward silence passes, for the blond's eyes are still wistfully fixated upward. Tulio clears his throat to bring those green eyes back his way. "My name is Tulio."

"M... Miguel. Call me Miguel."

Tulio bites back a grin. Every Rambler is named for some saint or another. There's not many holier out there than the archangel. Maybe they're all really that pious. Maybe. "Pleasure to meet you, Mi-"

The tightrope walker stumbles and falls. He hits the grass hard and lies limp. More than one member in the crowd gasps in horror. A few even scream.

A beat. "Oh!" Miguel dutifully says, a bit too late. "Oh no!"

Tulio snorts. "I've seen this act before, Miguel."

"Ah." His very fake expression of concern falls back into serenity. "All right, then."

Out of the night gambols the unicorn. What else can the creature be, moon-silver pale and with a spiral horn rising from its forehead? The unicorn bends down, brushing the tip of its horn to the fallen youth's lips. With a loud gasp, he sits up. The crowd cheers in joy and relief. Laughing, the youth somersaults to his feet. After rearing dramatically, the unicorn tosses its head and canters off into the dark. Applause follows it.

Tulio considers the Rambler beside him. "From what I heard your show always uses some variant of the unicorn trick for the grand finale. Doesn't it wear thin after a while?"

Miguel laughs after where the trained disappeared. "Well, it's always _my_ favorite part. It's... It's tradition." He shrugs a bit too casually. "Besides, it's been years since one of our trains traveled down into Spain, and that route was different."

"Don't fix what isn't broken, huh?"

Miguel smiles wide and smug. "You could say that."

With the show over, the crowd beings to disperse. Tulio drifts with them. Miguel glances warily to the wagon train.

"We-We'll be in town a few more nights. If you feel like dropping by, that is."

This time Tulio musters up the proper suave smirk. "I'd love too."

Miguel's smile lights up the night.

* * *

When he's in camp, the man known as Miguel either struts around or stares off into a space with a wide, silly smile. Most of the time he's glaringly absent. His babysitters attempt to manage him. Tulio's taught him some delightful tricks about misdirection and slipping off. Even when his people nearly resort to locking him up in a wagon, Miguel is never late to his meet-ups. Neither is Tulio.

Miguel's heart soars. The songs that spill out of him are brand new. He plays them perfectly, for they are his alone and not his usual riffing off the musicians. He is alive, more so than those first wondrous days tripping over his brand new feet and marveling as the wild mountains of his birth gave way to new lands and new peoples.

On the last day the woman currently known as Maria orders him aside. Miguel fearlessly meets her, for she is his matriarch here among this band Wanderers, shoulders squared for a fight. Instead he slumps in confusion. Maria is not scowling. Her weathered face is sad beyond a depth he's yet to experience. He shivers as her wintry gaze seems to pierce right through him.

"You are a fool," she says bluntly. "A wide-eyed, blundering fool."

Miguel quietly scoffs. They both know that isn't the word she truly means. But, even among their fellow Wanderers, they have trained their language well. The first slip-up before outsider ears may be their last.

"Tomorrow, we turn back north."

Miguel stammers in horror. "B-But we just barely got to Spain!"

Maria leans wearily over her cane. "When I agreed to take you south, I thought this old heart up for one last circuit. It's not. Teo and Adora have finally helped me see sense. My... My pulse is more erratic than the last time. We're heading straight home, with few stops as possible. If we're lucky we won't have to chase down any of the hermits in their glades for my sake between them."

Miguel bites his lip. There is no ailment their kind can't cure. Not that Maria will need it. When she sloughs off her human skin once more, she will cast off old age with it. Yet there are no true unicorns among the Wanderers, only trained horses with narwhal or goat horns glued to their foreheads for the shows.

"Fine," he concedes. "Then I'll just travel south on the next circuit."

"You're coming home with me, child."

"I've only just _got out_ , for the first time ever! You've been out here decades. It - It hasn't been even a year-"

"And in that span you've slipped closer to the edge than any I've watched in centuries!" Maria's lip curls. "All over some... some scoundrel."

"Don't call him that," Miguel hisses.

"It is what he is," Maria answers coldly. "You will never find a home with him, child. You have grown up sheltered in the high valleys, with only stories of those who live beneath the clouds. You were born after the hunts, so those who once slaughtered us sound new and exciting to you. Yet even the children who grew up in their skins know that vagabond for what he is. He is human." 

"Isn't the point of this all because we could never give it up, even when we no longer had to hide?" Miguel angrily waves his hands at the brightly colored wagons tended for long decades, the Wanderers that politely avert their eyes from his rage. Some his age have yet to know their true forms, if they ever will. "Surely there's something redeeming in humanity, if _we're_ human!"

"I've lost children and grandchildren to the Romani and woodsmen, because they've found those worth dying for." Maria pierces him with a gaze sharp as any horn. "I will not lose a great-great-grandson to a... a _vandal_ that will desert him by wintertime, when he has grown tired of him."

Miguel's clenched fists tremble. His whole body does. It is impossible to stand still when his blood boils as it never did before humanity. He furiously turns around.

Maria calls his name. His true name, one unfit for any human tongue. He freezes. The eavesdropping Wanders gasp at such a taboo so egregiously broken.

"Should you storm off now, you silly, silly foal, do not expect to come crawling back when your bed has long grown cold and your hair grayed with age. Even the most isolated hermit will know you as exile."

He hesitates only a moment. The small pouch he hides beneath his shirt, the little escape clause he is not supposed to have, seems to burn treacherously hot. Then he indeed storms off, stopping only for his guitar.

Miguel meets Tulio on the road. At the sight of him the man's brows furrow in concern. "Miguel. Hey, Miguel, what's-"

Miguel presses their lips together in a heated kiss, one that encapsulates his rage and his grief and above all his unwavering faith for the future. Their future.

His partner eagerly returns it.

* * *

Miguel and Tulio, Miguel and Tulio, con artists and partners in crime. Despite having grown up in a herd and traveled in the human equivalent, Miguel never feels alone. The Wanderers have always warily avoided large towns and cities. Tulio leads him right into bustling squares and seedy bars. Miguel expands his repertoire of tips and tricks. In time he comes to surpass his master in seduction. Not that Tulio minds this one bit. No matter their trysts and the good times had in their travels, the partners are constant in their bond, faithful as the sun to the moon.

Miguel shears off most of his luxuriously long hair and grows out a fashionable beard to truly embrace manhood. He'll be human until the day he dies, after a life well-loved and well-lived.

Hopefully. Miguel can never bring himself to abandon that pouch around his neck and the priceless treasure it contains.

Miguel learns. Miguel roams. Miguel is content.

For a time.

Oh, he never tires of Tulio. How can he, when Tulio is _Tulio?_ It is the drudgery of conning that wears thin, when the roads of Spain became as familiar to Miguel as the mountain valley of his youth, as the stifling dynamics of the Wanderers. Wherever that map leads to, there will certainly be adventure along the way.

Upon their stranding aboard Cortes' ship, Miguel knows well to not underestimate equine intelligence. Altivo has plenty idea what sort of being bargains with him for their freedom, exchanging an apple for a set of keys. Miguel's true form lingers as a phantom limb, tingly and seemingly just out of reach. Through that faint shiver of half-memory Miguel too feels the true power that guides them to the New World. Washing up on the start of the map's trail is no coincidence.

Neither is understanding the people of this miraculous golden city, though their language is certainly unlike all those Miguel learned before. Knowledge flows through him all the same just as it has through Tulio, who has lovingly kissed a fragment of Miguel's true self without realizing it anything more than a sentimental keepsake. Tulio is too terrified by their impending demise to ponder this seamless transition in language.

"As the prophecies foretold, the time of judgement is now! Citizens, did I not predict the gods would come to us?"

Miguel smirks in smug contemplation. Why, one might indeed call him a god. He is ageless and capable of bringing souls back from the brink of death. His powers are beyond mortal comprehension.

He still introduces himself as Miguel, called Miguel, because that is who he is now. Forever and always.

"Enough!" Tzekel-Kan snarls, cutting off an innocent question from Chief Tannabok. "You do not question... the gods!"

"That's right! Do not question us, or we shall have to unleash our awesome and terrible power!"

Too late does Miguel realize not even he has awesome and terrible power. Not like this. He's just as mundane as Tulio. When his partner pulls him aside to rightly point out this stupidity, Miguel wilts in shame.

"Well, I'm sorry! I..." He gropes desperately at his amulet. "I got carried away."

"Way away!"

Miguel furiously chews his lip. "Maybe we should tell the truth, because-"

"Are you nuts? We'd be butchered alive!"

There is indeed a solution. One there's no going back from. Not on his own.

"I... I may have another truth to tell."

"Yeah?" Tulio scoffs. "And what's that? You've conveniently been a god this whole time?"

"Well..."

His partner snorts in vicious denial. "Please. This can't have gone to your head _that_ quickly."

Miguel clasps fingers he will soon sacrifice. "Well, do you remember all those questions you have about my family, and my childhood? How was never able to answer any of them? This... This might clear up a few things."

Tulio stares at him, face increasingly more uncertain by the second. "Miguel..."

Miguel captures his lips in a final tender kiss. "I'm sorry," he whispers once his partner has been rendered breathless. "For everything."

With a deep breath on his own, Miguel squares his shoulders and finally rounds on the high priest awaiting his divine punishment. "There will be great and terrible power, Tzekel-Kan, but I will not punish with it. Not yet."

Tzekel-Kan, faith fading by the heartbeat, arches an unimpressed eyebrow. "And why is that... my lord?"

Miguel numbly reaches for his amulet. From mundane cloth tumbles what Tulio has mistaken for a tip of narwhal horn, old and yellowed. The moment it hits his palm its dormant magic awakes. Those close enough to see marvel at its pearlescent shine, like a shard of solid moonlight. This true alicorn, chipped from his own horn in a dumb accident many years ago.

"Today, Tzekel-Kan, I make you all _believe_."

In pressing that alicorn to his forehead, Miguel works a magic that should take another unicorn to unravel. Power, ancient and wild, resonates through his being as he rears high and proud for the first time in years. His grace makes the clouds draw back to unveil the golden sunset. The ominous rumbling beneath his hooves stills. The volcano peak stops smoking.

Behind him, Tulio chokes on all the emotions that must be fighting for release. Fortunately not a single eye is on him. Chief Tannabok has fallen to his knees, eyes shimmering. His people swiftly follow. Warriors drop their weapons. Men and women stare or freely sob. Even haughty Altivo sinks down on his front legs. Tzekel-Kan stares, eyes wide and hungry. Only belatedly does he too sweep into a bow.

Miguel scuffs an anxious hoof. Instinct whispers a warning at what flickers in those eyes. His emerald gaze instead flicks to the thief responsible for all this.

The golden head has carelessly tumbled from her hands. She has fallen in full prostration. Silent tears spill from her eyes, as she beholds grace embodied and finds herself lacking. Like Miguel is really such a paragon of virtue. His heart clenches.

Really, the choice is obvious.

Lightly, his horn comes down upon both her shoulders like a king appointing his royal champion. Through it he channels courage and approval, new strength that makes the woman scrub back her tears to stand tall and proud.

"I am Chel, my lords," she answers, wavering voice stronger by the word. "My only wish is to serve you. Might I have the honor of showing you to your temple?"

"...All right," Tulio squeaks out, once he finally pulls up his jaw from the ground. "Temple."

Chel winds up striding between Chief Tannabok and Tzekel-Kan, for the great leaders of the city aren't about her to carry out this honor alone. Miguel plods after them. Tulio shambles at his side, eyes staring at nothing.

Long ago in a distant wood, the unicorn not yet known as Miguel chipped off the very tip of his horn. Already having plans to try out the human side of the family for a few years, he had pretended the chip lost forever. Usually the transformation depends on the power of another horn. Miguel had thought himself clever by hoarding a secret shard that could make him whole all on its own.

Funny how he feels more fractured than ever.

* * *

Miguel is a unicorn. An honest to god _unicorn._ A beast Tulio believed did not exist up until his partner turned out to be one.

This... This oddly explains a lot about him. Especially those first few weeks traveling together. How a man that beautiful and charming had remained a virgin so long, Tulio had no idea. Not until realizing Miguel simply hadn't been a man that long.

Once Tulio gets over the worst of his shock, he side-eyes his partner. Miguel is silver from tip to tail, save for the scruff of golden beard growing from his chin. Without that magnificent horn Tulio might almost mistake him for a horse mundane as Altivo. Almost. Miguel radiates a divine presence that might move Tulio to tears... if he wasn't battling both betrayal and memories of this impossible idiot snoring drunk and disheveled beside him.

When Chief Tannabok and Tzekel-Kan each propose great things, Tulio hastily agrees both are good. Chel, their apparent new priestess, lingers as they depart.

"Shall I fetch you more... traditional garments for tonight, my lords?"

Miguel twitches a cryptic ear. Tulio sighs and goes with his gut. "Just for me please, Chel. Lord Miguel will be... feasting as is."

She rushes to the next chamber and bustles back with clothes before Tulio can even string his first question for Miguel together. He stares down in dismay at the strange bundle thrust into his arms but thanks and dismisses her all the same. Right now he needs all the privacy they can get.

"So, _partner_ ," he begins conversationally, "did you ever intend for this to come spilling out?"

Miguel sighs and scoffs an apologetic hoof. Tulio's heart aches.

"Fine," he grits out. "Fancy turning back now so you can at least explain things properly?"

Green eyes stare mournfully at him. Miguel bows his head. Tulio's blood runs cold, as he wonders why his partner has never flashed this incredibly useful form before now.

"C-Can you... Can you ever..."

Miguel no longer has arms to throw around him. Instead he rests his head over his partner's shoulder. His silence is final.

So Tulio squeezes his arms around that elegant neck instead. He nearly weeps into that silver mane, still cropped so short.

"We'll figure this out, partner. This... This isn't the worst mess you've ever put us in."

Miguel snorts dubiously. His self-doubt does not stop Tulio from throwing on godly garb to convince this stupid city he's just as divine. Once they're composed and bravado plastered on, they swagger out to meet their adoring public.

Miguel prances over hot coals and leaps the flames. His horn heals the sick and makes the fruits served on the feast sprout back into flourishing plants. Tulio makes do with good old human charm and charisma. And wine. Lots and lots of wine. Up until his partner his partner starts gently touching his horn to every cup. All wine is technically a poison and so purifies into clear water. Tulio grumbles and concedes it's probably best to be hungover for whatever Tzekel-Kan has planned tomorrow. Even though his partner could just, y'know, heal the hangover instead.

As the night winds down, Tulio staggers up to bed much too sober for his liking. Regretfully he considers the sleeping conditions. The luxurious mattress is more than large enough for two. Miguel instead curls up on the pile of pillows set aside for him.

Chel lingers in the threshold. "Is everything perfect, my lords?"

Tulio sucks in the breath for the last lie of the night. Miguel flicks a pointed ear at Chel and sincerely shakes his head. So Tulio caves. The whole ugly truth pours out of him because he's currently the only one capable of speaking, the only one aside from the horse who is a total fake.

Chel listens with wide eyes and does not turn away. She purses her lips in thoughtful silence. "Do you plan on staying here, considering..."

"No," Tulio blurts out immediately. To err is human. And inevitable. Even if he miraculously avoids fatal flaws in public, eventually someone is going to him aging while his partner remains in his eternal prime. "I can't, but Miguel might-"

The unicorn interrupts with an emphatic neigh to the contrary. Tulio can't help his shaky smile, for they are partners still, forever and always.

"Fine," Chel decides at last. "Then you're taking me with you."

Tulio near refuses on basic principal. Miguel instead offers a guileless hoof to shake.

Their duo becomes a trio.

* * *

When Tzekel-Kan lifts his cudgel to end an innocent life, Miguel trembles. He imagines that wicked weapon braining him, chopping off his horn. Countless of his ancestors suffered similar fates at the hands of human hunters. There's a good reason his kind is now content to hide away and hope mankind will one day believe unicorns never existed at all.

"Stop!"

It is a human voice, Tulio's command, that makes the high priest halt in utter bewilderment. Only with his partner striding forward to does Miguel find the courage to push past Tzekel-Kan. One slice of his horn shreds the bindings on that near sacrifice. One gentle touch has that man rising from his drugged stupor. He scrambles past them all into the anonymous safety of the crowd.

Miguel gleefully prances beside the procession of gold offered in his name, though unicorns have little use for physical possessions. At least his partners will be living in luxury. It's the least of what he can offer, after his idiocy is responsible for all this.

All Tulio wants is to lie low until their boat to freedom is finished. Miguel doesn't blame him in the slightest. With his power, Miguel instead sets out into the streets. The least he can do is ensure a unicorn's magic does not go to waste.

He arrives in Manoa's streets to discover Tzekel-Kan has ordered them cleansed. His flailing hooves and furious snorting chase the warriors back. Only then does he tip his horn to the man they shoved to the ground, healing his scrapes and bruises. Plenty are quick to seek him after that. Miguel heals aches and coughs and fevers. There is no disease too little or too great. He squeezes his bulk into houses and upstairs to deliver those on their deathbeds. His horn purifies stagnant water sources and revives fields of wilting crops. Beneath his hooves snakes and scorpions flee, to never lurk Manoa's borders again. A unicorn's power can endure eternity, if properly treated, and the people here are nothing but grateful.

When his duties subside, Miguel tries to enjoy himself as he did back in the cities of Spain. He can ride the turtle ferry. He can gawk at the massive storks in their sacred gardens, but lacks the hands that can cradle a basket of seed for them. Without fingers he can only marvel at what people can do with tiny little rectangles lined up to fall in controlled chaos. His bulk limits him to staring enviously up at the dancers whirling from their pole, free as birds.

Perhaps that is why he enjoys the ballgame so much. Not even the boys he plays with can use their hands in it.

Tzekel-Kan ruins that too. Snorting and stamping to drive those fiercely determined warriors back, Miguel can only so much to help Tulio with the ball. There's just too damn many of them, even for a unicorn. Only Chel's quick thinking by swapping out the ball for an armadillo trickster spirit saves their sorry hides.

With the game won, Tzekel-Kan orders the losing time sacrificed their glory. Miguel can only bugle his fury.

"There shall be no more sacrifices," Tulio commands. "Not now, and not ever."

It is Chel that wins them the ballgame. It is Tulio who bluntly ends human sacrifices and throws Tzekel-Kan out for good measure.

Chel and Tulio stink of each other, even on that first day. For a moment Miguel snorts in jealous fury before it withers and dies. His human form requires another unicorn to take mercy on him. Maria has long seen him banished from even the most isolated glades. His partners deserve to spend their days out with the intimate happiness he... he can no longer provide. Why can't it be with each other?

On that final night, Miguel tactfully ignores that shy little wave Chel sends to Tulio, and the idiotic grin she receives in return.

Maybe he should stay in Manoa after all. At least here can do some-

The Jaguar God's temple collapses as its jade jaguar wrenches itself free. Chel, with the presence of mind to mount Altivo, wrenches Tulio to safety.

Miguel instead gallops to the warriors swatted beside by those stone paws or crushed in its jaws. He heals those not beyond even his power. With a trumpeting bugle, he surges forward to meet his foe head-on, horn blazing like a shooting star through the night. His kind has slayed dragons. He can protect where no mortal power can.

Even the most fearsome dragon was made of flesh and blood. Miguel's horn gores into solid stone.

And snaps.

This is not like that accident in the distant wood, that had cost him only his pride and a sliver of power. This is not like his sealing into human skin, the majority of his power alive and well beneath it.

This is the core of his being being uprooted, wrenched right out from his forehead.

Miguel screams. So great is his agony he scarcely feels the massive paw that swats him aside a gnat.

Unconsciousness is no reprieve.

* * *

Only quick thinking (or, admittedly, desperate improvisation) on Tulio and Chel's part sees Tzekel-Kan launch his stone jaguar over the precipice and drag himself down for good measure. No human being can survive a fall from that height into raging waters. The bastard's finally dead. For a moment they lean against each other, panting for breath and chuckling at the absurdity.

Then they remember their partner, and his horrible shriek. By then Altivo had galloped too far for them to see Miguel.

Not even a unicorn can heal himself if he was killed before he could.

Screaming Miguel's name, Tulio and Chel charge through the jungle, retreading the path of carnage the stone jaguar wrought. They discover a crowd pressed around a body that never had the chance to leave the main square. They push their way through.

Painstakingly gathered on a red cloth are splintered shards of horn. Chief Tannabok protectively knees next to its owner, dabbing red blood from that vicious gash. He somberly bows his head to Tulio as he steps aside.

"Miguel," Tulio breathes in horror, falling to his knees. He scoops his partner's head into his lap. The cloak draped over his prone form slides back somewhat, revealing bare shoulders. "Oh, Miguel. I'm... I'm so s-"

A guttural groan escapes the man in his lap as green eyes blearily crack open. "T-Tulio? What's-"

Unable to contain himself, Tulio kisses him. After a confused moment his partner eagerly reciprocates. Only when they break apart for breath does Miguel frown quizzically down at himself. One hand flexes and then ghosts over his bare forehead, flinching back at the wound there that will surely scar. His eyes trail downward to the shards of horn.

"I'm sorry," Chel mumbles.

Miguel moves to gingerly poke at a shard. Then he thinks better of it. Instead his hand defiantly twines with his.

"Don't be," he tells them. "I'm not."

Magic lingers in those splinters of alicorn. They're left behind as a final gift to Manoa, to ponder the healing properties left. Not much later their barge of gold is swallowed by the same collapsed cavern that now protects Manoa from outside armies. They have no map, no plan, and no more magic to save them from mortal peril.

But they have each other. And the horse.

It's all Tulio needs, unicorns be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Unicorn's Secret happened to be the first book series I ever finished, because unicorns. And pretty covers. The plot focuses around Heart, a foundling girl with an asshole guardian that happens to discover a scarred, pregnant mare in the woods. Then that deformed foal the mare gives birth to sprouts a horn, because he's the last true unicorn in the world, what with his mother having been robbed her horn and the surviving unicorns trapped in human skin because of it. From what I remember the series takes place in a vague medieval fantasy land. This just happens a few centuries after that :p
> 
> To remain true to that series, the unicorns in this story are essentially just look like white horses with horns. Except for their overwhelming presence.
> 
> The human unicorns of the series are only called 'gypsies,' from what I remember of the books. Which is... not gonna fly here. Alongside the Romani, there are quite a few other nomadic groups in Europe in 1519, including possibly the mercharos of northern Spain. A smaller, even more tight-knit group could wander in from time to time too :p Ramblers are near exclusively human unicorns or the rare humans trusted on the secret. By this period unicorns are much more comfortable in shifting skins again, if under extremely controlled terms. Miguel, one of the few raised traditionally, pretty much went rogue immediately once his elders agreed to let him try the humanity thing out for a bit.
> 
> The 'unicorn rescue' serving as a staple of Rambler shows is a tribute to the original series, where the unicorn saves a performer from a fatal accident and so outs himself in front of a live audience. Because the crowd loved it, the unicorn rescue becomes a staple of their shows, with the actual unicorn eventually replaced by a trained horse. Because unicorns are very much the type for in-jokes (and many Ramblers have been traveled off and on for centuries), the tradition remains alive and well :p


	6. The (S)wan Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Miguel and Princess Chel get along like a house on a fire. To the despair of Miguel's mother, neither can just blurt out their proposal already. Things get worse when one vanishes without a trace. Chel vows to find her idiot partner, no matter what.
> 
> Miles away, a frog prince long resigned to his fate finds a quiet night interrupted by an indignant swan prince.
> 
> And then their whole lives, because one refuses to sit around moping on a lake and the other has a thing for loopholes.
> 
> Or: a fusion with The Swan Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You remember that animated version of The Swan Princess with the talking animal side-kicks, including that French frog dead convinced he was a prince? Well...

Uberta is a widow queen, a regent who has ruled alone since her baby boy was not yet a year old. Miguel is her miracle, her ray of sunshine. Uberta wants to give him the world. She'll settle for leaving him a kingdom wealthier, larger, and more powerful than it has ever been.

It is surely no coincidence the kingdom next door has a princess just about her boy's age. One day she'll rule it as queen. She's the firstborn, will never be displaced by the birth of any younger brothers. How fortuitous.

Princess Chel is not yet two when the first betrothal offer from Queen Uberta arrives in Manoa. The letter weighs over two pounds, loaded with flattery, the most minuscule benefits such an alliance might print, and a point by point plan how their children can be raised to fall in love as they grow up together. King Tannabok doesn't make it past the first page. Queen Miya meticulously scours the letter with the intention of sending back an even lengthier rebuttal shredding every argument. She's halfway through her first draft before she realizes Queen Uberta has opened the door to _debate._ So instead Miya sends a simple rejection letter that politely states they are entertaining no such offers at this time.

It's not Uberta's fault Miya nearly killed any warm relations between their kingdoms. Not truly. Tzekel-Kan and his mad magic are things Manoa wants forgotten, and not aired like dirty laundry. One of these days the assassins and soldiers still out for his head will bring him to justice. If his own arrogance has not yet already brought about his demise.

A letter comes the next year. And the year after that. Between them are many balls and councils royalty cannot avoid. Uberta drags her young son along every time. Prince Miguel is genuinely a sweet child. Overwhelmingly so. It's not his fault he's an only child and his mother's pride and joy. Despite the odds he's spoiled sweet instead of rotten. Tannabok and Miya grudgingly agree that boy could use a true friend to keep him grounded.

Little Chel, curious and clever beyond belief, can certainly use one too. Despite years of trying, she remains an only child.

When her daughter is four, Miya writes a letter proposing a chance for _friendship_ between their kingdoms. Chel is first in line to a throne all her own. She can spare only three months a year in Uberta's kingdom. Perhaps the following year Prince Miguel could reside in Manoa, alternating from then on until the children are grown. Miya states in no uncertain terms friendship cannot be forced. If Chel or Miguel are truly unhappy together, the visits cease.

There will be no betrothals, no marriage facts. Manoa will entertain no such offers from any kingdoms until Chel reaches an appropriate age to contribute her own opinions. Uberta agrees on the same for Miguel. They all know there's only one match she's hellbent on.

At the age of five, Chel throws herself into the carriage. It's adventure, a chance to leave her nice but boring home behind.

It's a chance to find a friend, one who won't say princesses shouldn't play in the dirt or try to boss him around. If Prince Miguel is like that, then she'll just kick him in the shins, and at least get a nice trip out of it all.

Despite the sweltering summer day, Chel is stuffed into her nicest dress. At least the skirt is loose so her legs can breathe a bit. The boy shoved before her, stuffed into even stuffier, puffier clothes, has no such reprieve.

Chel stares. Prince Miguel stares. His big green eyes remind of her of a puppy's.

Chel curtsies. She's practiced extra hard and barely wobbles. Prince Miguel bows back so low his nose nearly scraps the ground, then springs back up. Queen Uberta flushes.

Chel grins. Prince Miguel beams right back. She decides then and there he's her friend.

Their kingdoms rejoice and despair, for their royal heirs get along... like a house on fire.

That first summer, Prince Miguel's minders learn to sleep with one eye open. That does not stop their young charges from slipping off beneath their noses. Priceless birds in the royal menagerie fly off from opened cages. Stray cats and dogs find new homes under royal beds. There are bruised knees and sprains and even one broken bone, because the royal idiots keep daring each other into climbing taller things.

Chel rides home with a plaster cast upon her leg. She spends the carriage ride scrawling out her first letter to Miguel, to be mailed out the moment they stop for the night. They spam each other with messages of the most mundane things. With Uberta looking over her son's shoulder, they also work out their first rough code to communicate in peace.

If Chel blinked back angry tears at leaving the first summer, Miguel's fingers must be carefully pried from her father's leg. Tannabok and Miya are _awesome_ parents. Mostly because they let the kids be kids without neglecting them. Those are the months where Miguel freely rides on his own pony, shoots toy arrows alongside Chel, and teaches her the basics of his fencing lessons with wooden sticks.

As the pair grow older, into that age where boys and girls now sneer to play together, Uberta fears the two might finally grow apart and those... chaotically productive bonding sessions might grind to a halt. When a young lady two years older than Chel makes a biting remark about her being a boy in a dress, she smiles sweetly and acts the proper princess at dinner. The three chickens later find in that lady's bedroom surely got there all own their own. When a boy next jeers at Miguel over his pathetic taste of friends, Chel smoothly decks him before he can even finish it.

Miguel does not blush at being defended by a girl. He stammers for a very different reason when he compliments her upper cut.

When the pair enter adolescence, their chaperones pray they will finally grow up and quiet down. They do not.

Chel starts gaining brothers. At first it's only Matla, then a new one seems to follow each year. Miguel adores each one, from precocious Matla to bold Ome and the newest baby for that visit. The little rascals provide such a handy distraction for slipping off.

Miguel and Chel, thick as thieves, are just as stealthy in sneaking out and back to where they're supposed to be before anyone suspects. Adolescence only perfects the art as they start practicing... other things. Sometimes with each other. Sometimes they just provide the alibi for the other who's exchanged sultry looks with the stable boy or that cut maid their age who changes the linens.

Their parents can never prove a thing. Not beyond a reasonable doubt. Tannabok and Miya take great pride and exasperation in raising such a clever future queen. Uberta just remains mercifully oblivious.

Chel reaches an age where her parents gently take her aside to discuss betrothals in... vague hypotheticals. She's an astute on matters of state, cares deeply for her people and the foreign politics that keep them connected to the wider world. Her reasoning and shrewd debates grind to halt whenever it is suggested alliances might go beyond treaties and trade agreements.

Tannabok and Miya learn their daughter is not ready for such commitment. She is never is, when they are compelled to seek her opinion each year after that. As she and Miguel grow into true young adults, there is a very real possibility she might not ever be.

This does not bother parents in the slightest. Many a ruler has reigned alone in Manoa before. With baby Kuili bringing her brothers up to six, Chel's own succession is more than secure.

Miguel does not have the advantage of little siblings. What he does have is astounding obtuseness and the ability to charm the conversation into something _other_ than marriage when his mother brings it up. Uberta fumes. But quietly. This is her baby boy. She can't spook him on the subject. The older he is, the more he can assert his own rights. She'll never have grandchildren, much less a second kingdom, if Miguel is convinced to remain a bachelor.

On the visits go. This time it's in Manoa. Uberta watches her son intently. Oblivious to her stare, he converses with Chel. The banter between them is light and effortless as always. This time it revolves around the short beard Miguel's grown out since they were last together. They already sound like an old married couple.

Can one of them just work up the courage to _propose_ already? Or to at least admit the marriage is never happening? The sooner a potential diplomatic crisis is out of the way, the sooner Uberta can start shopping for a proper bride.

"Come on, Uberta," Miya soothes. "Let's have some tea."

Uberta folds her trembling hands before she can ripping out her hair in frustration. "Yes, yes, Miya. Some... chit-chat will do me good."

The day drags on.

After a sleepless night fretting over wasted years and succession crises, Uberta rises at an ungodly in hopes of cornering her early bird son in yet another serious conversation. Miguel, who has an uncanny sense for these things, beats her. At the sound of thundering hooves in the yard, Uberta rushes in vain to the window. Miguel is already a cloud of dust on the dawning horizon, his honor guard rushing to keep up.

"Young man!" she still cries. "You get back here this _instant!"_

Chel, who is not and will never be a morning person, cracks her eyes open to the most pleasant of wake-up calls. She shuffles down to help with the impossible task that is called 'breakfast time with six baby brothers.'

Hours drag on. Uberta's snide comments over punctuality devolve into outright complaining. When a darker emotion starts wrinkling the old queen's eyes instead of anger, Chel's stomach churns. Miguel drives his mother batty. Sometimes it's the only way he can survive living under the same roof. He is never cruel or careless enough to make Uberta _worry._

Chel quietly slides upstairs to exchange her day dress for her riding breeches. She's almost out the door herself when the captain of the guard staggers into the castle, rambling on about Prince Miguel and a Great Animal.

Before the man can finish, Chel stalks from the hall. She charges out of the stables without bothering to saddle up Altivo, pauses only to sling her bow and quiver over her shoulder. Her stallion is the best gift Miguel has ever given her. He gallops like the wind.

Chel is an unmatched archer. She's not one for hunting, but tracking has its uses. She follows those dragging footprints and trail of blood to the death the guard had just narrowly escaped.

As the near the carnage, Altivo snorts nervously. "Easy, boy," she soothes. "We're-We're almost there."

He quiets, just barely. Her horse trembles when she dismounts at the sight of the first mangled body beside the road. Men and horses alike have been swatted from the road, resting brokenly against splintered trees or in ditches gouged by some unthinkable power. One man, not quite dead, groans weakly as she passes. Chel falls to her knees, taking his head into her lap. She tries to look beyond him, where the corpse of Miguel's pretty palomino mare lays.

"I'm here now," she soothes. "Everything... Everything's going to be alright."

Chel stubbornly ignores that thick pool of blood cooling at her knees and lies though her teeth. She's nursed enough animals to know the wounds beyond saving.

"Y-Your... Your highness... I..."

"Who did this?"

"It came so quickly," the guard croaks. "A... A... _beast._ "

It is no mere beast that did this. "Miguel," she blurts out. "Where's Prince Miguel?"

"The prince... The prince is... _gone."_

Chel latches onto that word. It's all she has to cling to, when the poor man in her lap gurgles out his last. After a breathless minute, Chel gently closes his eyes and eases to her feet. She staggers to Miguel's pretty palomino. He'd named her Margarita, for her pelt was golden as a daisy flower.

Chel searches for... for Miguel. There is no body. No _body parts._ She can't even find a pool of blood enough for a body, no trail that a predator might have dragged one into the deeper jungle.

There isn't sign of any beast at all, save for the bloody carnage of its attack. How could any beast that large ambush a party or stalk off with any sign of disturbing the undergrowth? Unless it's a _supernatural_ beast. It has to be. No flesh and blood animal of this jungle could wreck such damage.

"Gone," she whispers.

Not dead. Not trampled. _Gone_ implies something that can be found again.

"I'll find you," Chel vows. "No matter what."

* * *

Tonight begins as every other does these days; snap his tongue out for dinner, ponder the many shitty turns his life took to bring him here, and then croak to kill some time before bed. Once he exhausts himself he can hopefully drift off to one of the good dreams, one where he's still handsome and human. Or maybe it'll be one of those nightmares involving that stupid witch again.

Instead, the monotony is broken by heavy human feet plodding through the undergrowth. Tulio dutifully hops for the reeds. Nothing to see here. It's just that psycho sorcerer and his dumb lackey coming back to their creepy abandoned temple.

However, the stifled cursing _is_ unusual. So are the stifled, demonic sounds accompanying them.

Tulio pokes his head out. There's Tzekel-Kan, hair mussed and arms scratched. Chima, his muscle, is covered in bruises and wrestling with the sack slung over his shoulder. From inside the bag something hisses bloody murder.

Great. The sorcerer summoned a demon. If they're setting that _thing_ loose on Tulio's lake than he swears he's gonna-

Out of the bag tumbles something large and blindingly white. Its angel-sized wings furiously beat the air as it snaps after Chima. The warrior gingerly pushes it onto the lake with the blunt of his spear.

Tulio relaxes. Just a swan, behaving no differently than the usual assholes that think every decent water source belongs to them. There's a reason he lives in a lake at the ass-end of the world, where not even swans usually dare go. Hopefully this one will just fly off and find itself another home.

"Now, now, your highness," Tzekel-Kan purrs. Tulio goes rigid. "Don't let my little spell upset you so. It doesn't even last the whole day. As soon as the moon comes up..."

The soul in the reeds glances upwards. The full moon is indeed rising above the treeline now. The swan peers up at it, green eyes wide. Around it the water swirls, higher and higher, glowing all the colors of dawn. Tulio's tiny frog heart hammers in horror. It takes him a long moment to realize this enchantment isn't for him. By then the swan's elegant neck has fallen away. The silhouette at its center is slim and human.

Is... Is this really...

The shimmering waves recede. In the lake stands a man, blond and bewildered. After a moment he snarls. Only the spear tip shoved at his neck halts his charge forward.

Tulio sighs. Even if this isn't his princess, the sight's still a damn good one.

"You f-"

"And that's how it works, every night," Tzekel-Kan cuts smoothly. "You have to be on the lake, of course, and for the moonlight to touch your wings."

The prince spits another curse. Tulio blinks. Huh. He hasn't that one in a while.

"Please, your highness. I could do _so_ much worse."

"You can turn him into a duck, my lord," Chima suggests hopefully, prodding at one of his bruises. "Or a mouse. Something not so large and scary."

"Please, Chima." Tzekel-Kan flashes his teeth. "Let's give our good prince time to come to his senses."

"Give me all the time in the world," the prince sneers. "The answer will always be no."

"For now," purrs the sorcerer.

Glaring at the spear still aimed his way, the men between him and the jaguar-infested jungle, the prince starts stalking down the lake shore.

"Do remember yourself, highness. As soon as the moonlight leaves the lake you turn back into a swan. No matter where you are!"

The prince glares back. Tzekel-Kan swaggers back to his creepy temple with Chima dutifully at his heels. Once they slip into the dark the prince sinks down. Drawing his knees up to his chin he glares sullenly over the lake. He's so forlorn Tulio finds himself hopping closer. Green eyes never look down.

"Um, hey." The words, his first aloud in at least a year, squeak out of him. Then there's nothing to do but clear his throat. "Sorry about well... everything. Really."

The prince stares only for a moment. Then he groans. "Really? I'm not even the first one that... that creep cursed? Is this just a dumping ground for princes?"

Tulio can't help his sheepish chuckle. "Well, yes and no. I got dropped here. By accident. Mostly from escaping the bird that was trying to carry me off and eat me."

"Ah." The prince slouches. "That's, well... Sorry. About that."

Tulio shrugs. "Eh. Less chance I try talking to people and get myself kicked into walls or stomped for it."

"That-That's terrible!"

Tulio snorts. "Story of my life." A pause. "To be fair, I was an _ass_ back in the day. Like, the hugest ass to walk the face of the earth. It was a given that one day I'd cross someday with enough power to teach me a lesson. What did you do to tick off the psycho?"

"He wanted me to willingly surrender my soul to his evil god so it could take possession of my body. I told him no, obviously."

Tulio winces. "Yikes."

"That's one word for it."

"...So he cursed you into a swan?"

The prince bites his lip. "Apparently it was the least offensive spell in his book. I need to agree willingly or else his god's evil magic will apparently dissolve me from the inside out."

Tulio splutters indignantly. "That's still clearly coercion!"

The prince chuckles darkly. "Semantics, as far the Jaguar God's concerned."

"...Tulio." The frog swallows back a croak. "My name's Tulio... was Tulio."

Bitterness falls from the prince's face as he thrusts out a hand. "Nice to meet you, Tulio. My name's Miguel."

Tulio hesitantly offers a webbed front foot. Large, warm fingers envelop it. "...Likewise. Miguel." After a moment too long they cough and draw their limbs apart. Tulio's cool amphibian body still tongues from the heat. "So, er, what's your out?"

"My... Oh." Miguel rubs his neck. "I need to kiss one I love."

"That's not so bad!"

"...Then they must make a vow of everlasting love. And prove it to the world."

"That's... That's rough, buddy."

"Hm-hm." Miguel sulks only for a moment before his curiosity kicks back in. "So, what about you?"

Tulio sighs. "A kiss from a princess."

_"That's it?"_

He splutters indignantly. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Sexy Swan!" He furiously waves a hand at his green, slimy visage. "I give the ladies warts! And they try to put their heels through me before I can explain there is a desperate, attractive prince under all this!"

Warm hands snatch Tulio from the ground. Hot breath puffs at his face before whiskered lips kiss right between his eyes. Stunned silence follows. Tulio is still gaping when Miguel gently lowers him back down to the ground.

"Hm. Suppose you were right about the gender in question. Oh, well. Just another thing for the letter."

"...What?"

Miguel carelessly rips off a large piece of his blouse. Tulio takes only a moment to gawk at the lower torso revealed. Experimentally ripping up the plants growing along the lake shore and rubbing his fingers through multiple sediments, before choosing his writing materials. The frog gapes as the idiot actually starts jotting stuff down.

"Miguel? You know we don't get courier service out here, right?"

His smile lights up the night. "Well, it's not like I'll be able to explain this all in person. I don't think I can talk as a swan like you can."

Tulio gently reminds this beautiful idiot leaving the lake means leaving his humanity behind. If Tulio could still be his old self for a few hours every night, he'd make peace with his curse to the end of time, even if it chained him to the lake. Miguel's face falls. Then his green eyes blaze.

"Swans can fly. Better put my trust in those who love me than live under that... that _creep."_ He snarls. "Because I'll never him what he really wants. Not now, and not ever."

He furiously continues writing. Tulio uses the silence to ponder semantics. His own curse explicitly requires a princess. No prince will do. Wherever he is, Miguel will lose his human form once the moonlight slips off the last.

Tulio's mind whirls with its first plan in ages. Off he hops for the reeds. After much yanking and swearing, he returns with his solution held firmly in his mouth. Miguel looks up from his letter to stare at him.

"Miguel, please tell me what this is."

"A reed?"

"What's _in_ the reed?"

"...Water?"

"Water from _where?"_

"Water from the..." Miguel trails off, mystified. "Do - Do you really think that could work?"

"Doesn't hurt to try."

Dexterous human fingers make short work of the project. By the time the moon slips off the lake, a waterproofed stockpile sits waiting beside strips of shirt and one folded note. Tulio, who had been snoring blissfully atop a human chest, yelps when the form beneath him falls away like water. He lands beside a snow-white swan, who primly ruffles his feathers.

"You ready for this?"

"I was born ready," Miguel says, because they are both creatures of magic, and in their curses find common understanding.

"Can you _fly?"_

"Um..."

Tulio drags a front foot down his face. Miguel turns out toward the lake, great white wings beating the air. His first attempts at take-off involve plowing into the reeds or into trees. Once Miguel actually gets airborne, instinct takes over. After three circuits around the lake Tulio concedes they'll probably survive the trip. They'll just have to pray they also survive the landing.

With much swearing, Tulio loads up Miguel like a pack mule, hollow, stoppered reeds of lake water bound in vines. The note is carefully folded into the mess. Miguel cranes his elegant neck his way once Tulio scrambles atop it all.

"You ready for this?"

Tulio tightens his grip. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"That's the spirit!"

Without so much as a count to three, the swan charges the lake. Tulio screams the entire way up. And for the first five minutes aloft, as Miguel struggles to find his balance with so much piled atop him.

When the flight evens out, Tulio cracks an eye open. Then he ogles the view. Wow, does he wish he can still whistle.

Below, the lake slips away and out of sight. Away they fly into a new morning, toward the end of at least one of their curses. Maybe. Tulio can only hope the swan prince is flying on some directional instinct toward that princess, and not for the South Pole.

* * *

Manoa is not in mourning. Not yet. Until those search parties scour the jungle discover a sign of what has befallen Prince Miguel. Uberta has not yet crumbled in despair. What time not spent gathering up all the treasures she can, and loudly proclaiming a grand ransom for her son's return, is spent praying in her quarters. She'll receive no company but Miya, to cling and weep to her like she's just a girl herself.

The castle assumes Chel has sequestered herself in her own chambers out of similar grief. She shoos away servants and parents and little brothers. Her time is spent pored over books on demons and dark gods. How she can hunt the bastard down, if she does not yet know how to fucking kill it?

When her aching eyes can take no more, Chel drags a hand over her face and wearily glances outside. Huh. It looks about noontime? Hadn't it just been-

With a shrill squawk, something large and white smacks into her window. Chel rolls out the direct path, stringing the bow now always at her side. It takes her a moment to realize the animal sprawled out on her balcony is one very discombobulated swan, and not something more fantastical. Bow still raised, she ventures closer. The swan is not alone. Flat on its back beside it is one large green frog, improbably panting for breath.

"N-Never... again..."

"...What?" Chel blurts out.

Realizing the arrow staring him down, the frog squeaks and jams his little hands up in the air. "Please don't shoot! I'm just the messenger!"

Chel rakes for brain on any folklore about gods that might have talking, swan-riding amphibians as messengers. "From who?"

The swan bobs its head her way. Chel's heart hammers at the red scrap of cloth carefully held in its beak. She almost snatches it from the swan, before remembering her manners. "Thank you." The swan grunts happily.

Chel unfolds a piece of Miguel's favorite shirt. Written inside is a note in his own hand, though sloppy and haphazard. Some of the letters have flaked off, but the story they tell is clear all the same. With trembling hands, Chel fixates on the frog, the safer of the two figures before her. The talking frog, who watches her in wary intelligence. His eyes are a deep, human blue.

"P-Prince Tulio?"

The frog awkwardly bows. "Just Tulio, your highness. Formerly Prince Tulio of San Nicolas. I'm pretty sure my parents disowned me long before I ever got myself cursed."

Chel extends a gallant hand. "In that case, just call me Chel."

Once introductions are made, she stares at the swan. His plumage is nearly pure white, save for the sunny crest on his head. His eyes are familiar emerald green.

"Miguel?"

The swan prince shuffles his webbed feet awkwardly, because his curse does not grant him the same luxury of speaking. Chel sweeps him into a crushing hug. After some spluttered squawking white wings envelop her back.

With these idiots safe and sound, Chel snatches up the letter to recheck those little conditions. One is certainly more doable than the other. Leaving the princes to recover their breath, Chel dashes for an authority figure. Normally that would be her mom. With Miya still cloistered with Uberta, she instead heads for her dad. Tannabok is in the middle of organizing another search party. He takes one look at his daughter, the familiar red scrap in her hands, and lets himself be wordlessly dragged out.

"Is a ransom note?" he murmurs once they're out of earshot, squeezing her hand sympathetically.

"Not exactly."

"Is... Is Miguel-"

Chel can't help her teary smile when she squeezes his hand right back. "Far from it, dad."

"Thank gods," he breathes. Then his brow furrows. "If not that, then what is about?"

"I need an eye witness," she blurts out. "Without one this might seem like some very elaborate lie to explain away something else."

Chel drags her father into her room. He blinks at the animals waiting sheepishly on the balcony. When the swan waves a wing hello and the frog actually bows to hail him as a king, Tannabok's eyes widen. With heroic restraint, he greets Tulio back, one royal to another. Even if one royal in question is a missing prince believed to have long been stabbed to death in a shady dark alley.

"Hello, Miguel," her dad says a ponderous moment later. "I'm relieved to see you... Well, I'm relieved to see you."

The swan makes a happy sound. When Tannabok lifts him into one of his crushing hugs more easily than usual, Miguel returns the sentiment by smothering him in his feathers.

"Thank you," Chel murmurs to Tulio. "For everything."

The frog prince shrugs. "Think nothing of it, Chel. Miguel... He never needed my help. Not really."

Chel shakes her head. "If he wound up stranded at that lake without a friend, I don't..." She tries very hard she had come close to shooting, before that little frog had opened his mouth. With a ragged sigh, she flicks her eyes to the bundle of reeds. "Besides, you might have helped him find one _hell_ of a loophole."

"If it even- _Hmph._ "

Chel easily scoops him up and presses her lips to his. Best not try getting away with a peck to the head.

Her hunch proves correct when vivid sparks obscure her vision. The weight in her hands becomes too heavy to hold. When that warmth tumbles away, she reflexively rolls after it. Before the spell entirely dies, she finds those lips again, now warm and stubbly. Just for good measure. He finally gets the sense to kiss back just as the light fades. Considering their audience, Chel pulls away.

She is straddling a naked man, flat on his back and still stammering at the simple step needed to clear this whole curse up. He's still scummy from the lake, his black hair lank and dirty. It doesn't harm his charm in the least.

"...Ah," her father murmurs, as she finally rolls away from one very stunned prince. "I understand now. Two naked princes in your room would be quite a thing to explain."

"T-Two?" Tulio splutters out, while the swan beside him chokes. Only then does he realize his nudity. He squeaks and buries himself in the blanket Chel throws over his lap. When he realizes Miguel is still gawking at him, Tulio flushes even redder.

Chel sighs. "Unfortunately, dad, Miguel's curse requires a bit more... creativity."

As the explains the immediate plan for temporary relief, Tannabok's eye strays to the reed bundle. Tulio chimes in a realization about holy water in his own native faith, how some enterprising merchants have figured out to sell a single flask of pope-blessed water by the _barrel._ Tannabok listens intently. Manoa itself is built upon sacred Lake Parime. No matter how much water the lake takes in during the rainy season, or loses in the rare drought, it is always the same lake.

But that's just a theory to confirm tonight. While Tulio happily slinks away for a long-overdue bath, Chel and Tannabok get to reunite Uberta with her swan-shaped son.

Before Chel can even finish her story, Uberta has already snatched Miguel into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Between sobbing out how much she loves him and his idiocy at riding off so recklessly, Uberta promises he'll still inherit her kingdom, curse be damned.

Leaving Miguel to his fate, Chel and her parents do what they can. First Chel slips off to help her father. That piddling amount of lake water is poured only from half the reeds. Its amount is carefully gown by carefully measured droplets, then in teaspoons and cups. By the time Tulio finds them they're pouring pots of it.

"How's it going?"

"It's..." Chel trails off to shamelessly admire the prince before her. Hair trimmed and tied back, he looks even handsomer than before, though now regretfully clothed. "It's _good_. Er, it's going good."

Her father dubiously eyes the pots. Their control water, poured from the other half of the reeds, is a tiny little cup carefully stored away in a moist, dark place to slow evaporation. "Are you certain this will work?"

"As long as it's at least half lake water and a few droplets every time, it's still _lake water."_ Tulio shrugs. "If 'evil curse' semantics play by the same rules as 'Catholic' semantics. We'll find out soon enough."

"How do you know your holy water was still holy?"

Tulio rubs his neck. "My kingdom... had a bit of a pest control problem, back in the day. It was cheaper for the hunters to mix their batches in bulk than keep begging the local priests for blessings."

Chel almost presses him for details. Instead, as those pots start being poured into barrels, Tannabok shoos them both upstairs. Miya is planning the ball to end all balls. A world's worth of royal invitations need to be drafted.

With aching hands, Chel and Tulio stagger their way outside as night begins. The hole gouged in the garden just that very day can only charitably be called a pond. Depending on semantics, its water might still be _lake_ water. From the one lake in the world that makes a difference.

Miguel anxiously squelches his feet at the damp shore, unwilling to wade in. His audience only consists of four the people closest to him, plus a prince he met just the night before. Tannabok raises a brow at him. Miguel blinks back. In silent understanding, Tannabok and Miya stroll back in doors, Uberta pressed gently but relentlessly between them. Her spluttered protests fade until only the peaceful sound of crickets remain.

"H-Hey, Miguel?" Chel murmurs. "Even if this doesn't work, we can try the control cup."

Tulio manages a warm smile. "If they don't, you're a beautiful bird for a few weeks. No big deal."

If Miguel is unwilling to surrender his immortal soul, than Tzekel-Kan's spell can only be broken by a loved one kissing him _with_ a vow of everlasting love _and_ proving it before the world. Not that the spell ever stipulated _romantic_ love. No matter what lofty expectations Uberta has for that ball and Chel's part in it, she herself will be in attendance, and her love for her son is certainly undeniable. She's willing to renounce her throne early for him.

Tonight, however, all they need is moonrise.

When the moon finally peaks above the garden walls, Chel and Tulio gently push Miguel onto the pond. He splays his wings to fight them. For a moment the light turns them radiant silver. Then the glowing waters rise up to engulf him.

Once more Chel jumps a prince before the light show ends. Not having regained his proper balance, Miguel squawks and tumbles backward. With giddy laughter they both splash into the pond and stagger to shore, soaking wet and beaming like idiots. Tulio awkwardly averts his eyes.

Hand still clasped tight around Chel's, Miguel kisses Tulio full on the lips.

"I-I-"

Miguel puffs out his chest. "Well, I owed you a proper kiss, didn't I? Last night didn't cut it."

Despite the dark, Tulio flushes bright red.

Chel dips in for one of her own. This time, no curses interrupt.

* * *

After a failed attempt to unleash the Jaguar God upon the kingdom and seize Manoa by force, Tzekel-Kan carefully bid his time for years. _Years._ With a princess as heir, he had first thought to marry the girl and crown himself king. Then Tzekel-Kan had stumbled across that most serendipitous of spells. With a willing sacrifice, the Jaguar God might himself walk the world in physical form. There is no better sacrifice to offer than Prince Miguel so that the Jaguar God might legitimately seize his kingdom _and_ Manoa by finally forcing Chel to wed him.

Unfortunately, Tzekel-Kan's spell book is scarce on nonviolent ways of coercion. The sacrifice will not work if he tortures compliance out of the prince. Worst yet, Tzekel-Kan cannot offer his god a broken vessel. The swan spell is meant for coercing maidens into marriage, but by gods is it the closest thing to finesse the book offers. So Tzekel-Kan makes do. Binding the Jaguar God to the prince is more permanent than any marriage, after all, _and_ right after his god incarnate will marry Chel and snap up Manoa too.

Reading over the conditions of the spell, Tzekel-Kan fixates on the lake clause. He assumes it binds its victim to its proximity, no matter their current form.

It does not.

Tzekel-Kan finds this out the hard way. After giving the prince a day to stew over his curse, he strolls down the lake shore the evening after to discover the place devoid of swans. Tzekel-Kan curses semantics and desperate sorcerers that really should have put more thought in forcing holy matrimony from unwilling lovers.

If grace and patience cannot win him two kingdoms, then Tzekel-Kan will settle for one taken by force. Such better befits his god, Lord of War and Conquest.

The _other_ spell he recently discovered was penned instead by a priestess loyal to Lord Tzinacon, the Bat God. Its test run in kidnapping the prince has proven it... most fun indeed. And far more practical than in animating the Jaguar God's statue in this old, forsaken temple and marching it through the jungle. The one in Manoa has long since been smashed to bits, torn down after Tzekel-Kan's reign as high priest came to such a shameful end.

Long before that grand ball comes to pass, a massive bat swoops down from the sky to assail Manoa's palace. With the moon obscured by clouds, it swoops vengefully after the white swan that flies in frantic circles through gardens and over temples. At least until Tulio chucks too many rocks at it. His call of 'bat creep' proves the final straw.

Tulio yelps and goes running as the unholy animal fixates on its new target.

Before its claws can carry him off, an arrow blooms in its throat. Two more follow, when Chel instead aims for the heart. She shoots arrows at its weak points until its smoking form collapses in on itself.

With the bastard dead, Chel whirls to check on her boys. Two sets of arms pin her between them.

Turns out semantics count for shit if they just kill the caster. Neat to know for next time.

After that, letters furiously fly between three kingdoms focused on nothing but semantics. The King and Queen of San Nicolas are indeed very pleased to discover their black sheep son very much alive. Uberta, who can deny her son nothing, wonders if maybe a third kingdom is suddenly in the bargain. Tannabok and Miya dig through Manoa's most obscure laws on polyamorous arrangements. No wedding before involved two heirs apparent _and_ a third-born son still very much not disinherited from his own succession.

When the three idiots finally blurt out their proposals, years later, their parents are _still_ debating semantics.

They all shrug and offer to just renounce their titles, because a life adventuring around the globe instead of just diplomatic purposes is starting to sound pretty intriguing.

Miraculously, their parents make peace on their terms within a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be a more heartfelt retelling, but then my characters decided to pick over semantics. Of course they did. It should be noted that Odette's curse in the movie calls explicitly for 'a man she loves' to do the grand kiss and proclamation, but I like twists that show platonic/familial love are just as valid as romantic love. Not that we ever got to the ball, because Tzekel-Kan didn't have time for that :p
> 
> The nitpick over lake water is inspired by the holy water rule, where apparently half a gallon plus a few drops of holy water added to half a gallon of normal water equals one full gallon plus a few drops of holy water. And also from a fic where a loophole allows an acorn full of acorn water to transform the character away from the lake.
> 
> In the movie, Odette is not bound to the lake. She can fly right to Prince Derek's castle and peck at his windows. There was nothing to stop her from ditching Rothbart's stupid lake or from jotting down the solution to her curse for her idiot prince in broad daylight. Miguel is not inclined to mope, not when he has a frog prince beside that can immediately benefit from a princess' kiss :p


	7. (P)rince Lindworm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen really should have heeded that witch's warnings better. Oh well. She finally has her twins, and no reason to ever tell them about their... triplet. Her secret is safe.
> 
> Until the giant lindworm comes stomping home to demand a bride AND a groom.
> 
> Maybe she should've thought this one through better.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Prince Lindworm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prince Lindworm is a kinky fairy tale, okay? Like someone a long time ago had very vivid ideas about whips and milk baths when it comes to breaking curses on big-ass snakes. The T rating still stands, but the curse breaking gets a bit... intense.

The King and Queen have long yearned for children of their own. Outwardly the King grumbles about wanting a single heir. His wife knows he has dreamed of a full nursery, with twice the brood she ever wanted, and will die content with just a simple warm, wriggling baby in his arms. She'll settle for that too. The Queen prays before holy shrines and spends long weeks in prayer. She slathers on stinking pastes and downs noxious fertility potions.

There is no child. Not until the old witch presses two rose seeds into her hands, refuses all gifts the Queen tries to give. Her instructions are simple. Red for a boy. White for a girl. Never, ever eat both.

The Queen plants the seeds in her garden, slices her own palm to bleed over them. Her sleep is restless. At dawn she stumbles outside to discover two precious roses tipped in dew; one white as snow, the other red as blood.

Last night, the Queen dreamed of a daughter, one with her husband's thick mane of black hair and her sharp grace. So too has she dreamed of a son, with her deep blue eyes and his father's strong countenance. The Queen stares down at those roses. How can she choose? _Why_ should she choose?

The witch's warning is ignored. The Queen devours the white rose, then the red.

In time, as her belly waxes like the moon, the healers say she is expecting twins. Her King weeps tears of joy. The Queen cradles her belly in satisfaction. Both. Both is good.

When a healer hesitates in his diagnosis, she hones in on him like a hawk. Under her stare he quietly admits to the possibility there might be _more_ than twins.

The Queen scoffs at the motion. Two roses for two babes. In quiet movements she focuses on their movements, the fists and feet fluttering against her skin and kicking into her ribs. The numbers never quite add up.

Inevitably, the children come. Her children; first her daughter, then the son. A sillier Queen might name them Rosa and Albano for the roses that bore them. This Queen has waited far too long for her family to play such games. They are christened Isabela and Juan, two strong names with dynastic power.

Her King, pale and wide-eyed, stares after the window where that... that _thing_ slithered off. "Should... Should we..."

"No," his Queen says.

And that is that. They have twins, a prince and a princess.

Whatever else followed behind them has escaped to the woods. It must be long dead, picked off by some greater creature.

As they grow, the Queen proudly notices delicate beauty under Isabela's baby feet, her husband's strong features in Juan's. Their hair is neither their father's raven black or her pale gold, but a muddied brown. Their eyes are the the King's dark hazel. Oh well.

Once in a great while, the Queen catches herself thinking about her brief glimpse of the creature that slithered out after Juan, that had escaped to a window at the midwife's piercing shriek. Its scales had been black and deep blue.

* * *

Chel is five when she gets lost in the woods. The harder she tries to wander home, the more disoriented she gets. No wonder Mom makes her and her brother stick to the village when they play hide and seek. In searching for the best hiding spot she has ensured she will never, ever be found.

Chel isn't a baby anymore. Big girls don't cry. Big girls fix their own mistakes. So she sniffs back her tears and trudges on.

Big girls don't get lost to begin with. With no one around to see her anyway, she finally sits down and starts bawling her eyes out.

At the sound of breaking twigs Chel looks up. Staring at her is a big snake, blue and black. It has to be longer than she is tall. Only it isn't a snake, because it has two scaly feet. Chel gawks. The not-a-snake gawks back. Eventually Chel scrubs the snot from her face.

"W-Well?" she demands. "Aren't you gonna eat me already?"

"N-No!" splutters the monster. "I don't eat _people."_

Chel blinks. Not a monster then. Only monsters eat people. "Oh, all right then."

Their staring continues. Then the not-a-snake tilts his head at her. "Are you a girl? I've never seen a girl up closer before."

Chel almost spits out she is indeed a girl. She remembers her manners just in time. "I sure am. And I've never... seen someone like you before either."

He rises up on his one pair of legs to puff out his chest. "I'm a lindworm."

Chel fearlessly strides over to stick out her hand. "Call me Chel. It's nice to meet you." The lindworm gawks at her hand. "You can stick out your foot too, if you want. This is just how I was taught to say hello."

Carefully the lindworm offers up a scaly foot that easily dwarfs her hand. Chel shakes it just as carefully, so she doesn't scrape her skin on those long black claws. "It's nice to meet you too, Chell. I'm... well, a lindworm. Probably the only one you're ever gonna meet."

"Okay," she says without missing a beat. At least she's not alone anymore.

"Are... Are you lost?" She sheepishly nods. The lindworm blinks, eyelids closing sideways. "I... I can show the way back to the village. If you want."

"T-Thank you. I'd like that very much."

The lindworm slowly but confidently leads the way through the wood. He half-slithers and half drags himself along by his claws, hauling his tail over roots and fallen logs she easily climbs over. Chel asks questions about where he lives in the woods and what he does in the day. Aside from ambushing animals and sunning himself, the lindworm lives a quiet life. A lonely life. In turn he asks her a million questions about the village, about why cows make milk and chickens eggs, why people dress in different ways. Chel answers them all as best she can.

"Do you have something you'd like to be called?" she ventures at last. "Other than 'lindworm?'"

The lindworm falls despondently silent. Chel's on the verge of apologizing when he flicks out his tongue. "I'm... open to suggestions."

Chel bites her lip. The lindworm is a person, however scaly. He deserves a proper name. That said, he certainly doesn't look like a Pablo. Chel considers more unusual names, those that inspire intrigue without raising eyebrows. "Um... Bonifacio, Horacio... Macario... Tulio..."

"Yes," the lindworm blurts out. "That's mine. I'm _Tulio._ "

His laugh is as light and boyish as his voice. Chel grins.

Not long after that, Tulio stops dead in his tracks. Chel squints ahead. She can just make out the thatched roofs of houses.

"Thank you for showing me the way home, Tulio. I promise I won't tell anyone about you."

"Thanks," he sighs. "I'm tired of getting chased out of burrows."

Chel worries her lip more. "If you'd like.... I'd like to come visit you again."

"R-Really?"

Chel beams. "Really."

Deep blue eyes stare at her. "Meet me here in a week from now. At noon."

Chel promises, cross her heart and hope to die. Then she happily dashes for her home, grinning at finding safety and a secret new friend to go along with it.

Tulio returns to his burrow. His sleep is content, but itchy. He's on the verge of shedding again.

"Hello, Mr. Lindworm," calls his _other_ friend the day after. "Are you home?"

Tulio's the luckiest lindworm ever. Meeting his first friend and then meeting his second just eight days after that? Miraculous, after so many lonely nights eavesdropping on humanity and being chased away by stomping shoos and pitchforks stabbed after his tail.

Tulio slithers up from his burrow. In the morning light the boy's hair is especially blond. "Hey, Miguel. Do... Do you remember that list of names you gave me?"

The boy beams. "Did you finally pick one?"

Tulio smirks as he considers the first names on those lists that matched. "It practically picked itself." Recalling that human gesture from yesterday, he awkwardly sticks out his foot again. "I'm Tulio. It's nice to properly meet you."

Miguel pauses, then grins even wider as he gamely shakes his hand right back. "Likewise, Tulio."

Miguel flops backward into the grass. Tulio uncoils beside him to bask in the sunlight too.

"Did anything else interesting happen yesterday?" Miguel asks. "Other than settling on your name?"

Tulio flicks out his tongue. One friend has turned into two. A boy _and_ a girl, both human and at home in the village. Do they know each other already? Are they friends too? What if they decide all they need is each other, and never come back? Tulio's a _lindworm._ It's not like he can play games like they can or offer conversation beyond his boring days in the woods.

"Nah," he sighs out at last. "Same old, same old."

Miguel happily spends in the morning talking about his own day, all the chores and this one neat song he heard on the guitar. Tulio only interrupts to ask questions when needed. He asks less by the day, because Miguel thoroughly explains everything he needs to know the first time he asks each time. When the conversation finally dies down, they bask in companionable silence.

"Hey, Miguel?"

"Hm?"

Tulio does a final count of the week in his head. "We should meet every Sunday from now on. Without... Without any more surprise visits between." At his partner's stricken look, he hastily adds, "I... I have another molt coming on, Miguel. I'm just gonna keep getting bigger. And eventually someone's gonna realize you're sneaking off every day. We... We should start learning how to be sneaky now. Before we got separated."

After a long pause and some watery eyes, Miguel finally sighs. "Yeah. I suppose you're right. Promise we'll meet every Sunday I can?"

"I promise."

Miguel makes him shake on it. Six days later, Tulio asks the same thing of Chel, when she promises to meet him every Saturday.

For a few months, Tulio is terrified his first real plan will fall apart, that his friends will discover each other and he'll lose them both. When that never happens, he falls into routine, and peaceful acceptance. Despite the silence of the week, his friends fill whole days with their adventures. In the time between, he slithers closer to other houses and villages, to catch what gossip he can.

Seasons pass. Chel and Miguel grow like weeds. Tulio grows and never stops. Every shed brings inches, whole feet, until he can kill even bears in his coils. Tulio is forced to abandon his favorite burrow, his trips to the edge of towns to gaze at their lights and hear their music. His partners become his last connections to humanity. They fearlessly follow into the deeper woods to new meeting spots. With the stink of lindworm on their clothes even the wolves know better than to bother them.

The smaller his wood grows, the more Tulio begs to hear of the world beyond. The topic of this kingdom's royalty always remains of keen interest.

Not long after sprouting the haphazard beginnings of his beard, Miguel leaves home behind to try his fortunes as a musician. Despite venturing into towns beyond, by the weekend he's always back to one of the villages skirting the forest. Tulio is always there to meet him, no matter how far he has to travel overnight after seeing Chel the day before.

While Miguel happily flew the cage, Chel can't bring herself to leave. Her grandparents, once merely old, are now positively ancient. Her parents are getting up there too. She and her brother are increasingly left to run the farm on their own. Tulio is her partner and trusted confidant, a warm bulk to lean against if not a shoulder to cry on. He can only offer only a listening ear and the empty assurances everything will turn out just fine.

Deep down, Tulio feels his partners drifting away. Miguel's passions tug him further and further, down roads Chel aches to walk. Not that she can. One day soon her family situation might grow so dire she might have to give up her Sunday visits.

His lindworm instincts, the same that him slithering away to safety just after birth, hiss he can easily prevent his partners from ever leaving them. He can trap them deep down in his lair, to keep him company for all time.

The side cultivated by his friends, the one that remembers how to play card games despite his claws now being far too clumsily large for them, quietly qualifies there are two exceptions to that rule. Chel and Miguel have poured out their hearts to him, their hopes and dreams and wishes. He's always hidden their presence from the other. The least Tulio can do now is leave them the rest of their lives.

Other people, on the other hand, those that aren't his partners... Well, Tulio can always _make_ new ones.

The fateful Sunday starts like all the others before it. Then Miguel casually mentions Prince Juan is about to travel off to finally seek an heiress grand enough to deserve him as consort.

Tulio's claws wrench into the earth. Acid dribbles from his maw to hiss and steam on the ground below.

"Er, Tulio?" Miguel ventures, fearless of the venom. "You're... Well, you're drooling."

Tulio casually swallows back his venom. "Sorry, Miguel. Must've been something I ate."

Blond brows furrow in earnest concern. "Are you okay?"

Tulio bares his teeth in is best grin, glimmering fangs each as long as his friend's forearm. "Yeah, Miguel. I'll be okay."

A wife, a partner legally bound to him for the rest of their lives, one that can never leave him.

It's the least of what he's owed.

* * *

On the day their son is finally off to find a proper bride, the Queen and her King travel in their grand royal chariot pulled by six white horses. Their boy rides gallantly before them astride the fine charger Altivo, magnificent in silver armor. Isabela, long a capable adult, is left to handle the kingdom in their stead.

As near the first crossroad, the royal procession grinds to a halt. The Queen peers out the window to behold a nightmare. Coiled in the road is the lindworm, who rears high to throw even the mounted knights in its shadow. The Queen braces for the guttural, bone-shaking roar. Instead her blood curdles at its hiss, and the human words upon it.

"A bride for me before a bride for you!"

Horses break and scatter at its voice. Juan, foolishly brave, reins Altivo under control. The stallion rears, pawing at the air. Juan reaches for his sword. The lindworm snarls, venom dripping from its open maw.

_"STOP!"_

The world freezes. The Queen throws herself from her carriage. Knights stop fumbling for weapons to gape at her. Altivo falls on all fours and stands there, no matter how persistently Juan kicks at his sides. The lindworm stops growling. Its deep blue eyes, the exact shade as her own, stare disdainfully at her. It pulls its maw back in a sneer when her husband climbs out, pulling her protectively behind him.

"Mother," it - _he_ \- hisses. "Father. Long time, no see."

Her husband squares his shoulders in defiance at what this creature truly is. The Queen is not so foolish. "My son," she says icily.

Juan gapes at her in horror. The lindworm bares his fangs in a vindicated smirk.

"That-That _thing_ is-"

"-our mistakes," the Queen cuts in. "Our child. I will make our sons murderers out of each other."

Her husband inhales raggedly, raising his voice to the lindworm. "What is it you want of us?"

"My bride." His tail flicks. "One worthy of a prince."

The King opens his mouth to point out technically the lindworm is the _youngest_ child, that his siblings should be wed before him. The Queen clenches his hand, nails sinking deep into his skin, and cuts this conversation right off. She gives her word arrangements shall be made.

The procession turns for him. Juan furiously charges ahead. Their youngest prowls relentlessly behind.

He takes up residence in the castle. Of course he does. The only bedchamber large to hold him is a desolate, drafty chamber on the bottom floor. Even then the servants must empty out its furniture to comfortably accommodate their new... prince. Only the large feather bed remains, to serve as a headrest.

Juan and Isabela are told in no uncertain terms assassination attempts on family will not be tolerated. The former twins retaliated with icy silence, retreating to the upper levels to sulk amongst themselves at this unspeakable betrayal. Their parents grant them space. The triplet dwelling down below never seeks them out. He broods in his lair and devours an alarming number of cows on a weekly basis.

The Queen and King send out a new wave of marriage offers, to those kingdoms too faraway or minor for prior consideration, those unlikely to know they had only a one son up until mere days ago. One king immediately offers them a bargain price for a younger daughter of his. He ships her off without so much as asking the groom's name. Which is convenient, because this son is a nameless lindworm.

To give the bride no time to back out, she is bundled into a gown and into the church right after disembarking. Her murderous scowl falls into morbid fascination when she is pushed into the church to discover her groom a lindworm. He stares owlishly. She stares right back.

The Queen allows herself a spark of hope, when bride and groom are ushered downstairs to do... whatever lindworms do to wives.

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

In the morning, the servants draw straws. The unlucky bastard creaks the door open to discover the lindworm curled up, all alone. Given the constant watch on the door all night, windows too high up for a person to reach all on their own, it's obvious what happened to the princess before the edge of her frilly skirt is discovered.

Days drag on. The lindworm never speaks of his bride. His family certainly don't ask about her. Her father never sends one letter back inquiring about her fate.

Quite down with brides for the time-being, the Queen focuses on princes. As firstborn Isabela will one day rule. She deserves a worthy consort.

In the castle gossip spreads like wildfire. Before the Queen can even start sending out letters on the matter, the lindworm charges his way into dinner. "A groom for me before a groom for you!"

Juan fumbles for the sword that got confiscated weeks ago. Isabela stands furiously up from the dinner table. "You had a _bride_ , remember? And you _ate her!"_

"I did n.... I did. I totally did. Because she was... defective." Before the Queen can ponder this, the lindworm looms to his full height. Her heart hammers. "I don't want a princess this time. I need a _prince."_

The King opens his mouth to point out that, whatever commoners are up to these days, that diplomatic alliances involve another set of logistics entirely. Isabela, who has inherited her good sense from her mother, promptly shushes him. "Fine," she grits out. "At least make sure to _savor_ this one."

Her little brother hisses in outrage. He stalks out, tail purposefully flipping the dining table over.

The Queen uses all of her considerable cunning to pen a marriage offer waxing praise of her child's deep blue eyes without ever specifying their slitted pupils and her child's graceful build without ever mentioning the deep blue scales above it. Or the equipment presumably beneath. The monarchs seeing an offer for grooms make their own conclusions.

The first king to reach out to them sends back an acceptance letter detailing his youngest is already en route to meet his beautiful betrothed. The prince in question is a legitimized bastard no doubt sent to woo his way onto a foreign throne. A prince is a prince. And this one is already on his way, so the Queen readies yet another wedding.

Like the princess before him, the prince is given no chance to speak before he's rushed before the altar. He gawks wordlessly his groom. The lindworm stares warily back.

Soon after the door to the lindworm's chambers is once more shut and locked, a scuffle breaks out inside, followed by unsettling quiet.

Upon the morning, the lindworm glumly flicks a dagger toward the door with his tail. Nothing else remains of his groom.

Not three days later, the King and Queen are visiting petitioners from across their realm. Their people scatter like mice when the lindworm stomps past them.

The King, no longer prone to tremble before his youngest, wearily pinches his nose. "What is it this time?"

The lindworm's fury deflates somewhat. "...What?"

"We gave you a bride. You ate her. We gave you a groom, and you ate him. What do you want this time, a _deity?"_

The lindworm narrows his eyes in ponderous thought. The Queen stares in horror. Her husband sweats.

Fortunately even the lindworm inherited a scrap of her common sense. "I tried a bride. I tried a groom. I want... both. Yes. Both is good." His chest puffs up. "I'm many times the size of my brother and sister put together. Obviously I can't be satisfied with just _one_."

Her husband groans at the logistical nightmare. The Queen thinks two spouses will at keep his appetite sated a bit longer.

Not about to wrangle with foreign powers anymore, the Queen starts at the closest village, offering hefty dowries for both a bride _and_ a groom for one of the royal house. The villagers, having not been born yesterday, stare at the messenger in uneasy silence. Except for the two idiots, conveniently both a man and a woman, who blurt out their immediate acceptance.

The Queen doesn't look gift horses in the mouth. Their families are indeed gifted enough gold to keep them happy for lifetimes. When bride and groom make joint requests for the ceremony and the... time after, the Queen immediately agrees to them all. Each shall indeed ten white shifts to wear beneath luxurious wedding robes. Waiting in their room will be a tub of lye and tub of milk, alongside as many whips as a boy can carry in his arms. Given what happened to the prince, the peasants will not survive long enough to use them anyway.

The lindworm is not informed of the peasant status of his betrotheds, or even their names. He's too lost in his own head to ask after them.

When his bride and groom walk down the aisle, side by side, his jaw drops.

The Queen concedes the princess homely at best and the prince a slip of a boy. These peasants, even shrouded in voluminous robes and the shifts beneath, are nothing short of beautiful. Chel has raven black hair and warm brown skin. Miguel's golden beard and green eyes are striking. Pity such youth is wasted on a beast.

As the priest plows loudly and stubbornly on, some whispered conversation passes between bride and grooms. The Queen watches with narrowed eyes, ready to call for the guards when the first objection is raised. One never comes.

Or so she thinks.

"Prince Lindworm, do you-"

"Tulio!" two voices break in.

Dead silence reigns.

"Tulio," Chel repeats calmly and unquestioningly. "Our husband's name is Tulio."

" _Prince_ Tulio." Miguel smiles fiercely. "On top of all the other names and titles."

The wizened old priest blinks at a child he should have indeed baptized many years ago. "Er, yes. Quite right." He clears his throat. "Do you, Prince Tulio Nicolas Antonio de Rosales y Castilla, take Chel..."

The Queen exhales a shaky breath. The King squeezes her hand. Subtle the priest is not. Saint Nicolas, who gifted such treasures in marriage, patron saint of the falsely accused. Saint Antonio, patron saint of the lost and oppressed. There is hope and desperate prayer for all involved in that name.

Unlike the prince and princess who came before, Chel and Miguel voice clear affirmation of their vows instead of weak sounds interpreted as yes. It is Tulio who now stammers his way through.

When they are all declared husbands and wife, Juan and Isabela indiscreetly exchange bets on who (if either) shall survive the night.

The Queen pretends not to notice.

* * *

Miguel's heart hammers. He's sweaty for far graver reasons than being swallowed in eleven layers of clothing. Stupid witch and her precise instructions. If the Queen had followed her own witch's precise instructions, then...

Once behind closed doors Tulio pitches forward like a limp noodle. There he lies, slitted eyes staring at nothing.

"Tulio?" Miguel murmurs. "Tulio?" Worried that they have shocked their partner, their _husband,_ beyond coherency, he turns to Chel. "D-Did we break him?"

She sighs. "He's fine, Tulio."

For now. Miguel's eyes slide to the whips.

At last, Tulio speaks, rumbling voice scarce a whisper. "I... I don't..."

Chel catches Miguel's eye and shimmies out of the outer robe. Wordlessly he follows until they both stand only in their ten snow-white shifts. "Why.. Why don't we play a game?"

His eyes narrow. "A game?"

"Each time one of us asks a question and that question gets answered, Miguel and I will each shed a shift, and you'll slough a skin."

"A skin _each time_? I... I can't..." Tulio trails off, staring at the bulky forms he knows better under far less layers of clothes. Miguel shivers, because for the first time Tulio is wondering what lies all the way at the bottom. "Fine. I'll go first; _what are you two doing here_?"

Miguel exhales shakily. "We both heard about what happened, the royal lindworm and his weddings. The whole village did. Of course we were the ones to... to volunteer."

Tulio's gaze darts away. His claws start tearing at his first skin, already old and peeling. The layer beneath is sleek, deep blue and black. His partners drop their first shifts to the floor.

"What the hell happened?" Chel asks bluntly.

"I didn't eat them!" he blurts out, too horrified to be anything but honest. "The princess was excited to marry a monster. She wanted to fake her death and live a life of adventure or something. I couldn't live with someone who wanted nothing to do with me, so I helped her out the window. She ripped her dress to climb me better, and said I should keep it to sell the con." He hisses. "The groom flashed a dagger the moment the door was closed. I was pissed he'd try that five minutes after me. He was confused I was pissed and didn't spit acid in his face for it. Then he begged me to fake his death, so he could be free of his psycho dad and run off with his real love. So I did. Again."

Miguel sighs and shrugs off the next shift. "Nice to hear what we already know."

"You - You already thought I was-"

"Your skin," Chel reminds him firmly, arms crossed.

Tulio reflexes his claws, surveying a brand new molt. With much hissing, he squirms out of it. The scales beneath lack their usual sheen, too wide and too new. He is not supposed to have grown into them yet. Chel's shift flutters to the floor.

"You already thought I was innocent?" he whispers.

"Of course we did," Miguel says gently. "You're _Tulio."_

"I haven't been afraid of you since the first thirty seconds of our relationship," Chel admits flatly. "I don't think Miguel ever was."

Miguel grins. "She's right."

Eight shifts become seven. Tulio struggles from his skin. These scales are even wider, softer, sickly in their color. Miguel can't bring himself to say anything else.

"H-How did you two even find out about each other?"

"We've known each other since childhood," Miguel admits. "We did grow up in the same village, after all."

"And fucked a few times over the years," Chel chimes in.

"Yeah, that too." Miguel can't help his weak smile. "We didn't find out how much we had in common until we volunteered at the same time. After that the truths just came spilling out."

Seven becomes six. This time Tulio whimpers. His claws, now dull and gray, have shredded too hard at his lower neck. He gingerly licks the wound there, before drawing his tongue in disgust. It is blood dribbling from that wound, but something dark and vile. Miguel's heart aches.

"Why?" he blurts out. With the question already voiced, he soldiers on. "Why did you never tell us about each other?"

Blue eyes try to slide close. His sideways eyelids spasm weakly. "I... I was afraid. So afraid."

Miguel nearly blurts a demand to elaborate. A warning squeeze of his hand stops him.

"You wouldn't have lost us," Chel tells him sternly. "We would have been your partners, no matter what."

"We shook on it," Miguel mumbles.

Halfway done. Tulio keens, new wounds on his upper back and a fraction of his former size. He folds in on himself. Thin lids shut horizontally. "What... What are you..."

"I'm sorry," Chel mumbles. "So, so sorry."

Their husband moans, but an answer is an answer. He starts grasping at those paper-thin scales.

"A witch came to us both," Miguel blurts out before he can. "One of the nice ones, trying to right a wrong her idiot sister had done a long, long time ago."

"The real spell grants parents a _choice_ ," Chel breaks in before Tulio can ask the inevitable question. "Boy, girl, or one of each. Responsible witches first check the mother _isn't already pregnant._ This bitch did not."

From five to four. Their husband groans like he's dying. Part of him is. His flesh has only tinges black and blue left, as if his whole form is bruised. Miguel takes a step forward to help. Then he realizes touching such raw wounds might only hurt Tulio worse.

"Is... Is there anything we-" Miguel claps his hands over his mouth.

Too late. "Yeah," Chel grinds out. "We finish this."

Three. Tulio doesn't dribble out streams of vile ichor. He gargles it out. "W-Would...I've been..."

Miguel clenches his fists as he considers all careless generosity has done. "Yes."

Pale, soft claws wrench at their skin in disgust. Miguel swallows back vomit. Two.

"Why 'Tulio?'" Chel mumbles.

"F-First name... you both... gave me."

Miguel thinks back to that distant day, a list of ten grandiose names rattled out to a nameless lindworm. He'd thought they'd all sounded pretty. Chel must have blurted out random names until stumbling across the one that fit their partner just right.

One.

"Can you be happy with us?" Miguel croaks out. _"Both_ of us? I... I think I can."

Chel squeezes his hand in a death grip. "Forever and always."

Tulio's voice is low and brittle, almost beyond earshot. _"Y-Yes."_

Off fall the last shifts. Miguel and Chel stand naked. Tulio is a raw, red, quivering mass. He moans like a dying animal.

"C-Can you hold him?"

Miguel swallows thickly. "I can."

He falls to his knees, gingerly taking Tulio's head into his lap. The massive head that once used a whole bed as pillow now fits comfortably there. His husband moans and buries his head into the warmth. He does not see Chel pick up the first whip to dip in the tub of lye.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

Tulio keens as the last of his flesh is scourged. The lindworm that once threatened how processions now flails weakly in a man's hold. Miguel strokes at his head, stammering out apologies and desperate promises everything will be okay. The whip strikes, again and again, never in the same place twice. Beneath the bloody red are stripes of white. Sometimes, when the whip strikes the head, black tendrils slither out. Miguel runs his fingers through one. The clump separates into individual hair strands.

When Chel collapses to her knees, weeping, Miguel rushes their husband to the tub of milk. The tub Tulio once could have downed like a tankard now near swallows him. He moans again, blue eyes cracking open. His pupils are round and dilated.

With their snow-white shifts, his partners gently dab away the last of his old self. Tulio sighs at the motions, sliding back into near sleep. There's pale skin, whole limbs long cocooned under scales, strands of lank black hair that fall wetly away from his scalp. Miguel runs awed fingers through silken strands that rival Chel's in length. Their ends are already curling.

Tulio moans at his touch, brand new feet kicking against the edge of the tub. Chel whips back her hands as that hairless chest surges up toward her.

Blue eyes crack again, as he realizes something is not quite right. "W-What's..."

"Sorry," Miguel whispers, drawing his hands out of that luxurious hair. "I'll stop now."

Tulio leans back in. "K-Keep going. That's..."

Miguel resumes, wishing he had the foresight to ask for a brush. Not that he has quite envisioned breaking Tulio's curse to mean... well... _this._

Chel's hand inches for a pale hand limply hanging over the tub's edge. She twines her fingers through it. Her breath hitches when their husband weakly squeezes back.

When Tulio's head lolls, it's clear he's gone from basking to straight up sleeping. Miguel reverently lifts him from the tub. The milk behind is pale pink. He staggers from his own exhaustion. Chel leans heavily against him. Together they limp for the feather bed and collapse in a soaked, shivering heap. They burrow into the covers, Tulio cradled between their bodies, and conk right out.

* * *

After the muffled screams of the night before through that thick oaken door, the unlucky servants again wait for that ominous silence to draw in. Instead there are stifled swears and sobs, giddy laughter and other sounds too terrible to contemplate. The first servant to draw the short straw peaks in and flees, red-faced. So does the second. The third stares in wide-eyed fascination until scandalized screams finally chase her away with squeaked apologies.

Despite the early hour, the Queen clutches a flute of wine in preparation for the news. The revelation that Chel and Miguel have both survived their wedding night is perhaps not so shocking as she first believed.

When she learns precisely what their bedmate is, the glass slips from her numb fingers and shatters. Her husband breathes a prayer.

Neither the Queen or the King truly believe the miracle until they see it for themselves. Miguel and Chel, though fully dressed, make no attempt to hide their tussled hair and flushed cheeks. The figure hobbling between them leans heavily, for his legs wobble like a newborn foal's. He has her lankiness, her deep blue eyes. If her husband had grown out his hair as a young man, it would have been as dark and thick as their son's.

The Queen raises a hand to hold back her sob. That look in her same blue eyes tells all she need ever know.

"I should have caught you," the King mumbles. "God help me, I should have caught you and cradled you. M-My..."

"Not yours," their son grinds out. "Not now, not ever."

There is another wedding, right in the village. The royal family are invited out of icy decorum. This wedding is under the open sky, so all Chel and Miguel's loved ones can crowd in. There is light and life and laughter. It is everything the Queen denied a prince and princess and Tulio's own true loves.

Pointedly, they settle down not in the castle, but in the slightly more modest manse Chel's family has made their home. More often than not Tulio and his partners are abroad, without maps and without plans.

Isabela, who's eye followed the blacksmith's brawny shoulders at her brother's wedding and then danced with him, later takes that same man as her consort. Juan never marries. With his sister settled and little brother married off, he happily rides into a life of heroics. The princes and princesses he rescues gape after him when he rides into the sunset, turning down a dozen proposals and a hundred 'rewards.' Adventure is his only love.

Some things broken can never be repaired. In time Isabela and Juan remember to love their parents. The trust between them, so thoroughly shattered, never quite returns.

The King and Queen love their youngest immediately, no matter how hard it aches. Tulio never quite loves them back. They ache all the more, for he has every reason why. But there is eventually understanding. After years. The Queen learns respect for her son- _and_ daughter-in-law. If only for the grandchildren. All have their mother's black hair, dark eyes, and bright grins inherited from their three parents. All bear the name Rosales y Castilla.

It is happily ever after, close as one can come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original fairy tale, the queen winds up two sons - the lindworm and a normal prince. Which begs the question of why that stupid witch gave the two flowers instead of just making the queen pick her baby's gender right then and handing over just the one seed.
> 
> So here twins ARE a valid option, that why Tulio has a reason to get jealous over both not getting a bride OR a groom. The witch just screwed up her warnings. It's less a warning against two magic buns in the oven then... making sure the oven isn't occupied first.
> 
> Parents that actually both acknowledging their kids usually wind up with healthy, happy babies not long after, and stories about magic weirdness just becomes one of those embarrassing stories all parents pull out at the worst time. Tulio's parents just ignored their problem until he literally became too big to ignore.


	8. (C)oco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulio is still determined to get over that bridge. At least one of Coco's papas should still be fighting for her.
> 
> Running into a living boy who is an ex-friend's descendant can be called a nasty coincidence. That kid also having the name of an ex-partner can only be fate.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Coco.

Stupid scanner. Stupid flower bridge. Stupid Flores for confiscating his costume. Tulio had really thought his Frida Kahlo disguise would be the winner. Now he's up shit creek without a-

"Hey. Hey! Do you really know de la Cruz?"

Tulio turns at that boyish tone. "Who wants to-" His question shrills into a scream as he sees the kid's _fleshy_ face. "Y-You're alive!"

The kid shushes him. Tulio can get nothing else out before he's shoved into a phone booth.

"Yeah," the kid continues. "I'm alive. And if I wanna get back to the Land of the Living, I need de la Cruz's blessing."

Tulio pauses. "...That's weirdly specific."

"He's my great-grand-grandfather."

Tulio's jaw drops. So do his eyeballs, because _yikes._ Absently he slams them back up into their sockets. The living kid can't hide his disgust.

Wait. _Wait._ Living kid.

"Yes!" He nearly grabs for the kid's shoulders, before realizing how creepy that is. "You're going back to the Land of the Living, right?"

The kid shrinks back anyway. "Y'know what, maybe this isn't such a g-"

"Look, kid, I can help you!" Tulio bites back his enthusiasm as much as he can. It slips in regardless. "You can help me. We can help each other. But, most importantly, you can help me."

The kid stares behind him, brown eyes wide and terrified. "That's nice."

Tulio's arm gets tugged right from his socket. Obliviously the kid keeps running, his naked Xolo dog at his heels. Fortunately one of them is an expert in evading authorities. Tulio's arm taps the kid's shoulder, for the skeleton itself is ten paces behind. The kid hurls his arm back. Grabbing him by the shoulder, Tulio steers him into a dense crowd. He's not sure why the kid is so terrified of the people that can reunite him with Ernesto even faster, but hey, Tulio's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when this is his last chance to make it over the bridge.

They don't stop running until under an overpass. The kid gasps for breath. Tulio bites back a wistful sigh. Being dead means being tireless, but the adrenaline rush of bailing from a con gone wrong had been special in its own way.

"You okay, kid?"

"M-Miguel," the kid pants out. "M-My name is... Miguel."

And yet another knife to Tulio's nonexistent gut. Really, what is it with this kid? Ernesto's great-great-grandson, with the face of one partner and the name of another. Though to be fair it's been over ninety years since Tulio saw a face in the flesh. Of course he's seeing _his_ kid in this kid. Especially because 'Miguel' remains as popular a name as ever.

He extends a hand. "I'm Tulio."

Miguel gingerly shakes it. Tulio finds his fleshy hold just as disconcerting as the kid must find his boniness. "Nice to meet you." His dog barks. "Oh, and this is Dante."

Tulio eyes an animal that's clearly an ordinary dog and not a fantastical alebrije. He doesn't quite trust Dante around his broken leg bone, already splinted together as it is. "...Charmed." From his vest he pulls out a can of shoe polish nicked just for the occasion. "First thing's first, kid, I'm gonna need you to sit down."

Miguel plops down on a wooden crate. Tulio slathers his face in bone-white shoe polish, dabbing black over his nose and eyelids. The more he conceals Miguel's true features, the more Tulio can convince himself this kid is in no way related to his kid. Even more importantly, the kid looks _dead._ At least as long as no one stares too closely.

When his masterpiece is done, Tulio grandly presents the kid a compact mirror. "See? Dead as a doorknob." After a beat, he stows the mirror away. "So, listen, kid; this place runs on memories. When you're well-remembered, people put up your photo and you get the cross the bridges and visit the living on the Day of the Dead." His eye twitches. "Unless you're me."

Miguel's face scrunches in understanding. "You can't cross over."

"No one's ever put up my picture." Granted, Tulio deserved that, but this is his last chance. He feels it in the cracks that have wormed their way into his bones. "But you can change that!"

Carefully he draws out the one photo he never had the heart to rip up. Miguel squints down at it. "This is you?"

Tulio grins. The marks speckling his yellowed jawbone just can't match the appeal of real stubble. "I was a looker, huh?"

Miguel squints further. "Who's the other guy?"

Tulio forces out a laugh. "Oh, don't mind him. He's dead to me. And also plain old dead, but he's not important right now!"

Sure, that idiot might have given up on his chance of seeing her one last time, but Tulio isn't about to fade away without a fight.

Miguel cocks his head in yet another painfully familiar gesture. "So you get me to my great-great-grandpa, then I put up your photo when I get home?"

"That's it, kid." Tulio pauses, trying to not to stare at where he knows the kid's flesh is fading to reveal the bones beneath. "The thing is, de la Cruz is a tough guy to get to. I need to cross that bridge _tonight._ And you need to get across that bridge soon. Like tonight." He tries to make his tone more upbeat, to not remind Miguel is life is now measured in hours. "Are you sure you don't have any other family here? Anyone more accessible?"

"Nope," the kid lies. It's poor even by amateur standards.

Tulio drags a hand down his face. "Fair enough, kid." He understands better than anyone how family can be alienated to the point where they're just not family anymore. With the kid properly disguised, they set out into the streets. "I'm warning you it's not gonna be easy. Your great-great-grandpa is a busy man." After a pause, he stares at the kid. "...What are you doing?"

Miguel happily lurches along. "Blending in."

"Skeletons don't walk like that."

"It's how you walk."

Tulio swallows down his bitterness over how brittle he's become. Of course Miguel doesn't know proper etiquette. He purposefully holds his bum leg higher to point out its splint. "You ain't nearly forgotten, kid."

Miguel's face falls. With new eyes he takes in the crowd around him. Their bones are clean white and brightly painted, while Tulio's are cracked and yellowed. Their clothes are brand new. Tulio's are tattered. "Oh," he mumbles. "I- I'm-"

Tulio snorts and slaps his back. "Don't worry about it, kid. It's not like you should know what's what down here. Not for a long, long, _long_ time."

For a time they walk in silence. Miguel's face scrunches in confusion. "If you're nearly forgotten, then why do you wanna visit someone on the other side?"

He sighs. "People get old, kid. They have living friends and family to think about. It's not they should fill up their head with people who left them a long time ago, when they have people right there for them." He burrows his hands in his tattered vest. "Doesn't mean you care about them any less."

Tulio is spared from more awkward apologies by the gaudiest billboard to ever blemish the Land of the Dead. Miguel's eyes bulge in awe. Tulio is so thankful he can almost forgive the attached speakers blaring out "Remember Me." Almost.

"Whoa," the kid breathes. "'Ernesto de la Cruz's Sunrise Spectacular!'"

"Ugh," Tulio gags. "Every year your great-great-grandpa puts on that stupid show to mark the end of the Day of the Dead." Despite Ernesto having been dead for decades now, his stupid legends only seems to grow by the year. Even celebrities far more recently dead flock to his celebrations and only add to the prestige.

"And you can get us in!"

Um. "Well..."

"Hey!" Miguel snaps. "You told that officer you had front row tickets!"

"I... may have exaggerated the truth." Before the kid can explode, he hastily promises, "Easy, kid, I'll get you to him."

He scowls suspiciously back. "How?"

"I happen to know where he's rehearsing."

Miguel buries his hands in his pockets, barely pacified. "Do you even really know de la Cruz?"

Tulio snorts as he recalls those distant days, precariously balanced between the trio at home and the one on the road. "Kid, 'know' doesn't even cover it."

Miguel perks up in interest. Tulio lets the mystery hang. Ernesto's great-great-grandson does not need to know one of many hazy circumstances under which his great-grandparent might have been conceived. Or how loudly his esteemed ancestor mumbles in his sleep or belts out his calls of passion.

Tulio _could_ tell him exactly how many of the bastard's greatest hits use _his_ lyrics, but he's never been one for bragging. Not about that.

Besides, he doubts the kid would ever believe him. At times even Tulio struggles to believe the magic that had poured out of him, that elevated melodies into near immortality.

That part of him never woke up after it was stabbed to death in a shady dark alley, all over looking for an idiot who had choked to death on a chorizo.

* * *

Miguel (the _original_ Miguel) loves many things about the Land of the Dead; his large adopted family, the fantastical alebrijes, his own albebrije most especially, the creativity of his anatomy down here. But never the Day of the Dead. Not ever.

Outside his shack lanterns and trashcan fires burn bright against the gloom. Laughter and conversation drifts in. Miguel sullenly scrunches deeper into his hammock, gritting his teeth as golden fire wracks through him. It's happening more often than ever. This is the last Day of the Dead he'll ever have to endure. He knows it in his bones.

His silence is invaded by two sets of footsteps. One sounds oddly heavy, tripping all over the precious piles carefully hoarded over the years. The other drags in a way painfully familiar. Well, three sets if one counts the ticking claws of a canine alebrije.

Before the idiot can open his mouth, Miguel groans. In their first decades down here he punched Tulio's skull clean off his shoulders whenever he tried to drag him into his selfish, selfish schemes. Now he just throws an arm over his face. "I don't want to hear it anymore, Tulio. Not now, not ever. Leave them all in peace already."

A sigh greets him. "For once, Miguel, this is not about me." A guilty pause. "At least not entirely."

Miguel curiously lowers his arm. He scowls at his ex-partner, before his gaze slides to one very awkward boy. "Oh, hello there. Sorry about... that. It has nothing to do with you."

Tulio sighs. "Actually, it has everything to do with him."

Tulio yanks down the kid's hood. Miguel cocks his head in bewilderment, before he sees _ears_ and the messy lines to that painted face. He erupts from his hammock. "You're _alive!"_

"I'm alive," the boy confirms, before wincing and holding up glowing, skeletal hands. "Well, mostly."

Miguel's mind races. This has to be a family curse. How else could one so young blunder into the underworld? Then why...

Oh, not _again._

"Is-Is he-"

"I'm Ernesto de la Cruz's great-great-grandson," the boy blurts out. "I need his blessing."

Miguel sags in relief, hand clutching at his rib cage. "Oh, _thank God."_ He considers the kid. "Er, well, thankfully you know where to head. But why do you need my help." His face scrunches in thought as he once more tries to remember a long, _long_ list of lovers. Some of them had most definitely involved Ernesto and been of the feminine persuasion. "If you know anything about your great-great-grandmother, I might be able to-"

"Miguel," Tulio breaks in. "Miguel... well, _Miguelito,_ really needs to borrow your guitar."

"My guitar?"

"For the music competition!" the boy enthuses. "The winner gets to play for de la Cruz!"

Miguel ponders this. He lifts a finger. "Question, why not just show up to his party? You are, well..." How to put it tactfully? "Obviously not dead. That alone has to get Ernesto's attention."

Tulio pinches his nasal bone. "On Ernesto's busiest night of the year, when every celebrity and their brother is shacked up at his place? Please, Miguel. You know how _zealous_ his security can be."

Miguel winces. Back in the day he had made the grave mistake on trying to drop in on Ernesto when he was still newly dead, just to try rekindling a friendship with the one person from the old days he could feasibly approach. His security guards had not been gentle. "Okay, you have a point there. We certainly can't afford to waste hours fighting through red tape."

_"We?"_

"Of course." Miguel primly bends down, shoving Tulio's jawbone back into his hands. "You certainly don't drag our old friend's living great-great-grandson to my door and expect me to just let you handle this on your own. Besides, it's _my_ guitar."

His ex-partner splutters indignantly. Miguel blithely ignores him to pick up his guitar. He gently wipes the dust from it. "So, Miguel, you're a guitar player just like your great-great-grandfather?"

"I... I'd like to be," the boy murmurs.

Tulio gapes at him. "You'd _like_ to be? C-Can you even-"

Miguel casually swings his arm, the neck of his guitar bouncing Tulio's skull off his shoulders and into one of many junk piles. His body scrambles after it. Miguel beams at the younger Miguel. "Well, then it's a good thing you found me. Back in the day this guitar used to be your great-great-grandfather's."

"R-Really?" The boy's eyes widen when Miguel flicks the guitar, revealing the name carved into its back with an undeniable hand. "How did you even..."

Miguel chuckles. "Oh, Ernesto and I used to play together way back when. As you can see from this dusty old thing it was long before he became famous. It... It was the last thing he ever gave to me." Because Ernesto had been thoughtful enough to bury him with it. How could Miguel have ever thrown it away, no matter much music and his selfish dreams had ultimately hurt him?

The younger Miguel cocks his head. "Would I know you from any of his albums?"

Miguel coughs. "Er, no. I happened to choke on a chorizo before Ernesto got to that stage in his career."

He accepts the boy's smothered laugh with a wry smile. Miguel's learned to live with the infamy of his alleged death. It's certainly more lighthearted a fate than the truth he collapsed in a street beside his friend, killed from a bad chorizo just as he tried heading home to his true family.

The boy stares in awe at the guitar but makes no motion to take it. Miguel slings it over his own back. Grumbling, Tulio attaches his skull to his body. They travel to the trolley together, the kid a barrier between them. For his sake Miguel will keep it civil. To avoid his mind straying back to the skeleton sitting far too close, he swerves the guitar into his lap and idly starts strumming. Despite the decades his fingers barely stumble.

The younger Miguel blinks up at him. "You seriously played with Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time?"

Tulio snorts. "Greatest eyebrows of all time, maybe."

"Tulio!"

His ex-partner rolls his eyes. "C'mon, Miguel, you're not denying it either."

Considering their audience, Miguel does his best to be charitable. "Well... your great-great-grandfather... certainly knows how to carry a grito."

Tulio smirks. "Oh, does he."

The kid scoffs. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Above his head, his guardians exchange a knowing glance.

There's a reason the three of them had worked so well. Miguel had helped refine Ernesto's guitar playing, but that lovable idiot just could not string anything better than a so-so tune. Miguel had provided the melodies and Tulio their best lyrics, alongside the sensibility that had finagled their first gigs in small plazas and seedy bars. If Miguel had been the heart and Tulio the mind, Ernesto had been the face. His chiseled features and suave charisma had won them gigs without proprietors ever hearing him or Miguel perform. He could enthrall audiences without infuriating spouses or being _too_ provocative in his dancing. Miguel had never managed that same social grace.

Then Miguel scowls and looks away, because he is _not_ reminiscing with the idiot who not only abandoned Chel and their Cocoin a fool's quest, but is still selfish enough to try worming his way into their lives.

The Plaza de la Cruz is jammed pack. Miguel and Tulio grimace through fifty passionate renditions of "Remember Me." Thank god the younger Miguel will play "Poco Loco" instead. If the kid doesn't keel over from nerves. The closer his turn comes, the more jittery he gets.

Tulio sighs. "Miguel, maybe you should-"

"No!" Miguel clings to the guitar. "If I can't go out there and play one song... how can I call myself a musician?"

"Of course you're a musician!" the older Miguel enthuses, drowning out his ex-partner's protests. "If you're going to perform, then you're gonna _perform."_

Miguel shakes himself loose. The younger Miguel copies. Then Miguel coaches him through a grito, to warm up his vocals and chase out his nerves. The boy echoes him uncertainly. Even his dog whimpers at the sound.

"De la Cruzcito!" calls a stagehand. "You're on now."

The boy freezes in utter stage fright. Before Miguel can bend down to his level, Tulio zips past him. "Hey! Hey, Miguel, look at me." Brown eyes fixate on dark blue. "You can do this! Grab their attention and don't let it go."

The emcee calls out the last act. Her voice echoes far and wide.

"Make 'em listen, kid! You've got this."

The older Miguel beams. "It's in your bones!"

The crowd applauds as the boy is led on stage. Tulio and Miguel share a look somewhere between tentative hope and utter dread.

The kid squints into the spotlights, frozen stiff. The crowd murmurs impatiently. Someone even calls for the singing dogs. Hopelessly the kid turns back to them. Miguel shimmies once more. Tulio frantically strums an imaginary guitar.

The kid faces his audience. The kid inhales. The kid belts out the perfect grito, deep and resonant. Tulio's jaw falls right off. Miguel catches it before it clatters to the floor and ruins his focus. They both grin like idiots as the kid eases into both the song and the guitar. "Poco Loco" was a true collaboration, one of the few songs Miguel helped Tulio pen instead of simply providing the music to. Ernesto had vetoed most of Miguel's lyrics as too sappy or silly for ears but Chel's.

The audience warms up with the younger Miguel. The true songwriters look on like proud parents. Finally a cover artist did justice to something Ernesto has long played as too schmaltzy a love ballad.

Everything is going great until Dante 'accidentally' bumps into their legs. They tumble into the spotlight together.

Not about to sabotage the true artist, Miguel pulls himself together, springing back up with his most dashing smile. After a beat Tulio follows his lead. They've bullshitted their way through many cons long before Ernesto helped make their music a steadier gig. And Tulio's never forgotten his rhythm.

Tulio usually only danced to charm the pretty faces in a crowd. Miguel, well-versed at a general audience, hams up his dancing, purposefully bumping into his partner when his looks getting a little too smoldering, his moves too suggestive. Eventually the beautiful idiot catches on. The crowd claps along.

Miguel is so taken by the audience he can't help but belt out the last few verses. It's almost like old times, especially because his partner _is_ Ernesto's great-great-grandson.

Then a third voice joins in. Tulio had been a songwriter and manager, who sung aloud to an audience of three (or rarely five, if Oscar and Felipe begged hard enough.) His voice soon loses its tentative waver, ramping up into the full tenor Miguel has not heard in over ninety years. He freezes up in shock. The younger Miguel plays on, deftly weaving the new addition into his harmony, so of course the older Miguel finds himself again.

The audience chants for an encore. Miguel is so busy basking in their glow he only yelps when the kid hauls him and Tulio both off. Jeez, haven't they cured his stage fright already?

"Hey, kid!" Tulio blurts out. "Hell of a time to relapse."

"We gotta get outta here!"

"You're about to win this thing," Miguel urges. "You can't turn back now!"

The emcee takes the microphone for an emergency announcement to be on the lookout for a living boy who answers to Miguel. Earlier tonight he has run away from his family, who just want to send him back to the Land of the Living.

"Wait, wait, wait," Miguel blurts out. "We've wasted hours on this competition when you have family _right here?"_

"God dammit, kid, you implied the rest of your family were assholes, that de la Cruz was your _only_ option!" Tulio explodes. "They just wanna send you home!"

"I do have other family, but-"

"You could have taken my photo back this whole time?"

Miguel freezes. The kid's argument he needs a musician's blessing rushes through his head.

"You lied to me!" Tulio spits.

_"Excuse me?"_ Miguel hisses, so venomously both of them shrink away. He stalks after his ex-partner. "All you care about is the _photo?"_

"Hey!" Tulio throws out his arms. "I told you it wasn't _all_ about me!"

"Y-You f...." Almost too late he remembers innocent ears. "You f... feckless, loquacious, pompous scoundrel!"

"You... mincing, self-righteous twit! I'm trying to get back to our family!"

"You had our family!" Miguel snarls. "And you _left!"_

"To find _you!"_

"You idiot, _I_ _was already dead!"_

"Keep your stupid photo!" The younger Miguel disdainfully hurls it. "What do you know about family?"

The breeze catches the photo. Tulio yelps and darts after it. Miguel, scrambling for the kid, is tripped up by him. They fall in a tangle of bones. Miguel vanishes, racing away from the family who loves him to chase a dream who does not even know he exists. With an uncertain whimper, his dog glances back at the fallen skeletons, and follows his master.

"Kid!" Tulio calls. "Miguel, I'm sorry! Come back!"

The one Miguel left gathers his wayward bones, climbing to his feet. "Look what your stupid photo did now!"

"Excuse me?" Tulio furiously waves his picture. Miguel scowls at two ghosts, arms slung over each other and beaming for the woman standing behind the camera. "I was using this to find your vagrant ass and bring it home safely. Now it's our only ticket to our kid!"

Part of Miguel wants to snatch that bitter reminder and tear to pieces. Instead he sags, the full weariness of years slamming back upon his shoulders. "I just wanted to go home," he murmurs. "I tried to move heaven and earth for them, like Ernesto did for me. B-But I was too late." His green eyes, sharp and accusing, fall on Tulio. "You can't find what was already gone. All you did was abandon our family for a dead man. You never went home, because you got jumped in a dark alley like the reckless idiot you are."

"I... I..."

Miguel turns his back on his ex-partner for the final time. He drifts back into the crowd to at least report the direction the kid ran off in.

He does not get far before first hearing 'Rivera.'

...It's not destiny or fate, only one more nasty coincidence. Rivera is an extremely common surname. Surely Miguel Rivera isn't related to _those_ Riveras.

"Excuse me?" he calls to one of the skeletons asking after the living boy. "Excuse me, I have..." The man turns, revealing himself another ghost. _"Oscar?"_

Oscar Rivera's jaw falls clean off. _"Miguel?"_

What follows is a blur. The Rivera twins tug him past a group of half-familiar faces. Miguel freezes before a goddess, careless of the giant winged jaguar baring its fangs behind her. The silver streaking her hair only adds to her beauty.

"Chel," he breathes.

For a beat her face is as wondrous as his own. Then she scowls. Miguel's knees go weak. _"You."_

"I..."

"Goddammit, Miguel, why haven't you sent him home yet?"

"...What?"

"Miguel _Rivera,_ you idiot. My great-great-grandson. _Coco's_ great-grandson."

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh no.

Miguel swoons back in a faint. Chel's twin brothers catch him.

And hold him as that golden fire once more sears through his bones.

* * *

The Frida Kahlo disguise finally pays off. The security guards eagerly let Tulio through without even checking their guest list. No one even notices when his unibrow almost peels off.

A responsible adult would return a living kid to the Land of the Living after a quick hug and a firm scolding to never, ever get themselves cursed like this ever again. In life Ernesto de la Cruz had never bothered checking to see if his numerous affairs had ever resulted in any accidents. In death a _living_ great-great-grandson is a curiosity to show off to all his celebrity friends. His ego will be especially pleased to discover his line has spawned yet another selfish, idiotic glory hound of a musician.

Tulio waits until the fireworks draw the crowd outside. He descends into a deserted hall to discover Ernesto already bestowing his blessing.

"We had a deal, kid!"

Ernesto and Miguel startle. "Who are you? What is the meaning of this?" Tulio stalks out of the shadows, unibrow firmly attached. Ernesto brightens. "Oh, Frida! I thought you couldn't make it."

Tulio rips off his disguise. "You said you'd take back my photo, Miguel. You _promised."_

Ernesto stands to his full height, hands protectively settled on the kid's shoulders. Even as a skeleton he looms. "You know this... man?"

"I just met him tonight. He told me he knew you-"

Tulio barks a laugh, brandishing his photo. "Kid, 'know' doesn't even cover it."

"T-Tulio?"

The sound of his name from an old friend's throat makes him stagger. Tulio sinks wearily to his knees, pushing his picture toward the kid. "Please, Miguel. I - I don't have a lot of time."

Ernesto snatches the photo first, eyes widening at the two ghosts beaming up at him. One kneels at his feet, faded and broken. Ernesto de la Cruz stands tall and bright white, a legend among the Land of the Dead. "My friend," he murmurs. "You're... being forgotten."

"Yeah?" Tulio snarls. "And whose fault is that?"

"Tulio, please-"

"Those were _my_ lyrics you took. _My_ words that made _you_ famous."

"W-What?" Miguel blurts out.

Tulio plows on. "If I'm being forgotten, it's because you never told anyone I wrote them-"

"That's crazy," Miguel breaks in. "De la Cruz wrote all his own songs."

Tulio jeers. "And I suppose you composed them all too, Ernesto."

"Tulio, I never meant to take credit, for you or for..." Ernesto shakes his head. "H-He died in my... and then you just up and vanished. I only sang his songs, _your_ songs, because a wanted to keep a part of you - of _him -_ alive."

"Oh, how generous."

Miguel staggers. "You really were all partners, him and you and... and the other Miguel."

Tulio tiredly shakes his head. That argument is decades dead. "Look, I don't want to fight about it. We both know our Miguel sure as hell doesn't. I just want you to make it right. Your kid can put my photo up and I can cross over the bridge. I can see _my_ kid. My girl."

Ernesto stares down at the photo. It is not Tulio's face he brushes a finger over.

Tulio latches onto it. "She's _his_ girl too, Ernesto. What was it you always used to tell him, even on his... his last night?"

Ernesto jerks his finger back as if burned by Miguel's guileless grin. "That was a long time ago."

Tulio has heard enough fragments of this story to piece it together. "You drank together, didn't you? A final toast to see him off. You told him you would move heaven and earth for..." His eyes dart to a much younger Miguel. "...For your amigo. Now I'm asking you to do that for his daughter, _our_ daughter, so that at least one of us can be there for her."

It is not Tulio's careful pause that makes the kid's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Heaven and earth? Like in the movie?"

"...What?"

"That's Don Hidalgo's toast... in the de la Cruz movie "El Camino A Casa.'"

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Kid, I'm talking about real life here!"

"No, it's there." Miguel's eyes scan the many film clips projected upon the upper walls. He jabs a finger at one. "Look!"

Tulio looks. He can't stop looking, not when that shifty villain starts delivering a toast Tulio knows by heart. The same Ernesto would use with his _partners_ whenever he got drunk or sentimental enough to veer into full ham.

"But in the movie, Don Hidalgo poisons the drink..."

On the screen Ernesto's character spits out his poisoned glass. But it is not his face that flashes before Tulio's eyes. A true 'amigo' would have trustingly downed that drink, might not have realized anything was wrong until he was dying in the street.

Quivering in rage, Tulio spins around the room. His gaze fixates on another scene. Ernesto's character is cornered in a dark alley by some villain's weaselly henchmen. He dodges the knife aimed at his ribs, punches his would-be murderer right on the jaw, and heroically fights his way out of a deadly ambush.

"It wasn't that chorizo Miguel had to worry about, was it?" Tulio hisses.

"Y-You're confusing movies with reality, Tulio."

"You took his guitar, the one me and our _real_ partner worked our asses off to pay for. You took the songbook we poured our hearts and souls into. A-And then you got rid of the one idiot who should have figured you out." Tulio lets out a sound somewhere between laugh and sob. "Here I thought that was just my own shitty luck!"

Tulio lunges. He hurls as many punches as he can before security drags him off. He screams curses until they throw him into the cenote yawning open behind Ernesto's estate.

At least the kid is safe. He's Ernesto's flesh and blood, a musician just like him (except in all the ways that count). An innocent kid with no way to prove his great-great-grandfather's alleged guilt, with no reason whatsoever to believe Tulio's claims. Even Ernesto can't harm his own-

-Tulio's last fragile faith in his ex-friend shatters when security guards hurl the kid dozens of feet into the pool below. Those callous skeletons walk off as a child splashes his way to the safety of solid ground, screams that he just wants to go home. Tulio limps his way toward Miguel. The kid rushes into his arms.

Tulio tries his best to soothe him. All he can do is hold on as Miguel spews up his bitter grief.

"Y-You were right. I should have gone back to my family. T-They told me to not be like de la Cruz, but I didn't listen. I - I told them I didn't care if they remembered me. I didn't care if I was on their stupid ofrenda."

"Hey, kid," Tulio murmurs. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."

Decades later the assurances still sound sincere. Tulio had not yet known he was lying through his teeth when he'd promised Coco he'd bring Papa Miguel back safe and sound, that all four of them would be family together forever, that no one was leaving her ever again.

Tulio grits his teeth as that golden fire brings him to his knees. He can't entirely stifle his tortured scream.

"Tulio! Tulio, what's..."

"She's... forgetting me," he whispers.

"Who?"

"My daughter..." Tulio wearily shuts his eyes. _"Our_ daughter. M-Miguel and I never... It never mattered."

Not like that it had stopped them from both proposing to Chel, had squabbled with each other for the honor. Chel had only rolled her eyes and called them both her idiots. She had chosen them both, altar be damned, and wrote down two names for their daughter's birth certificate.

"She's the reason you wanted to cross the bridge," Miguel murmurs. "But why would Miguel..."

"Our partner declared him dead to the family, and Miguel respects her wishes. No matter what." Tulio sways uneasily. "He died trying to see our girl again. He never should have left Santa Cecilia. I-I shouldn't have... I wish I could apologize. I wish I could tell her so hard her papa tried so hard to bring her papa home. That they both loved her so much." He exhales raggedly. "My Coco."

"Coco?"

Miguel digs into his hoodie to pull out a photo, carefully trimmed on both sides so only the central figures stand whole. Tulio reverently takes it from him. He's half-surprised the image doesn't evaporate when he brushes a finger over Chel's cheek, then Coco's. She had inherited her mother's rich black hair, her deep brown eyes and warm skin. Nothing remains of her papas but the arms slung over Chel's shoulders and Miguel's gaudy skull guitar jamming its way to the forefront.

"W-Where did you get this?"

"That's my Mama Coco." Miguel's fingers guide over his own. "That's my Mama Chel." His fingers brush the skull guitar. "Is that...?"

Tulio swallows against a phantom frog in his throat. "That's your... Papa Miguel." He snorts. "Or at least the birthday present he never put down."

At least he finally knows who Coco's true biological father is. Of course Miguel's love of music resurfaced in his unwitting namesake, one bold enough to defy the Rivera music ban.

Miguel blushes. "I, uh, may have wound up down here because of that birthday present."

"You _stole_ it?"

"I was just borrowing it! ...From de la Cruz's tomb." The kid's face twists, brushing over the arm and slim bit of a vest that remains of Coco's other papa. "Turns out he stole it first."

A great-great-grandson who is a musician _and_ a thief. Tulio somehow laughs and sobs at the same time, throwing his arms around Miguel. His kid returns the hug.

When his giddy delight recedes, the sorrow settles back in. Tulio brushes Coco's innocent face, one well now over ninety years old. "I always hoped I'd see her again, be able to drag Miguel to her. I hoped she'd at least one day find out about him, put up his photo. But he's as forgotten as I am, so I guess she never did." He clutches at his rib cage, long empty of its heart. "She's the last person up there who remember us. The moment she's gone from the living world..."

"But I know you, Papa Tulio, and Papa Miguel!"

Tulio wearily shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that, kid. Our stories have to be passed down by those who knew us in life. Their memories keep us tethered here. When the last ties dissolve... our bones don't hold us back anymore."

Miguel clutches him fearfully, as if his hold is enough to keep his bones from dissolving into golden. "W-Where do the forgotten go?"

"No one knows." Realizing how bleak that answer sounds, Tulio tries and fails at a grin. "It happens to everyone down here eventually, kid. The living just aren't meant to pile up their homes with dead people. I've traveled far enough to know there's plenty of places where no one puts up ofrendas."

Not that Tulio wants to go there, when everyone he loves and all he knows is right _here._ It is a journey his Miguel will be making soon enough. At least his partner won't be making it alone. But their kid's been traumatized enough for tonight.

"You know, we wrote your Mama Coco a song once," he says just to change the subject. "Usually I wrote all the good stuff, but your Papa Miguel actually had some special things to say about our girl. We used to sing it every night at the same time, no matter how far apart we all were." _What I wouldn't give to sing it to them both, one last time._

Tulio sings softly, plaintively, if only to keep from breaking down into hysterical tears. The last few times he had sung it for Coco, there had been no sad guitar or second voice to accompany him. Her other papa was already rotting in his grave, their songs stolen from him.

Miguel pulls away, clenching his fists. "He stole Papa Miguel's guitar, he stole your songs. You two should be the ones the world remembers, not de la Cruz!"

"We didn't make "Remember Me" for the world. We made it for Coco." Tulio scoffs. "Some great-great-grandpa I turned out to be. At least one cared about getting you home safely."

"Are you kidding? A minute ago I thought I was related to a murderer. Now I get two _real_ great-great-grandpas for the price of one!" Tulio can't find it in him to smile, not even when Miguel leans close. "My whole life, there's been something that made me different... and never knew where it came from. But now I know where it came from, twice over! I'm proud Mama Coco has a mama _and_ two papas. I'm proud we're family!"

Staring defiantly up at the sky, Miguel bellows loud and clear how proud he is to be family, finishing off his declaration with a grito. Laughing, Tulio booms out the same sentiment.

Above the howling of a Xolo and the beating of giant wings, a third voice calls back.

Pepita and Dante both turn to look at the _other_ Miguel, blond hair thoroughly windswept and clinging for Chel for dear afterlife. He beams down at them. "What? Can't I be proud of our great-great-grandson too?"

The younger Miguel grins up at them both. Chel smiles back, decades of bitterness lifting from her shoulders.

"Chel!" Tulio can't help but exclaim.

Her icy stare regards him next. "Tulio."

He shivers all the same. "You look good."

Chel orders them all aboard. Her family obeys, even Dante. Tulio winds up clinging to the older Miguel, because Chel knows damn well that a flare-up at the wrong moment might send them falling from Pepita. Their great-great-grandson and his dog wind up scooted a bit further down Pepita's back.

With the kid occupied by flying and Dante finally sprouting wings as a proper alebrije, the truth of Ernesto's involvement slips out of Tulio. Miguel's reflexive denials splutter out as the story unfolds. He shakes so badly that Tulio clings tighter to him. Chel exhales raggedly, fingers digging into Pepita's fur. Not once has she turned back.

"It's not an excuse," Tulio mumbles. "Not for anything. I- I should have figured out sooner. I- I should have clung Coco tight and never let her go, I'm-"

Chel whips her head around. Some hair has escaped her conservative bun, streaming behind her like a battle flag. "Does that _rat_ still have your photo?"

Tulio cocks his head. "Maybe. I was too busy trying to kill him again to pay much attention."

"Oh, he better," Chel hisses dangerously. Pepita rumbles in agreement. "If he's torn it up I'll take _him_ apart, piece by piece."

"We need a plan," Tulio argues. He wearily rubs his temple, because he's supposed to be the brains of the operation. If only he could _think._

"We need a miracle," Miguel whispers. "No. We need _Altivo."_

"...As in your old horse?" Tulio gets sentimentality in what might be their final hours, but still.

His partner's eyes glint with some of their old light as he cranes his head back to him. "Something like that."

Miguel whistles, the sound carrying far and wide on the wind. Dante whines. Pepita's nostrils flare.

In life Tulio had never bonded close enough to any animal to forge an alibrije bond. He'd been hard pressed to put his faith in anything but himself and, eventually, his partners. Chel had her beloved childhood cat. Miguel had the old Andalusian he'd ridden to escape his rich, shitty parents. Chel's bond with Pepita had forged a house cat into a vibrant, massive winged jaguar. For a time Altivo had been Miguel's only true friend in the world.

The shadow that descends from the clouds above is long and serpentine. Except for the horse head, Altivo can scarcely be called equine. He dwarfs even Pepita.

"...Yeah," Tulio mumbles. "That'll do it."

"Cool," the kid breathes in awe, reaching a hand to green and gold scales. His dog sneezes, so his boy scratches him behind the ears. "Don't worry, Dante. You're still the best."

Altivo snorts dubiously. The sound is like thunder.

* * *

In a whirlwind of marigold petals, Miguel Rivera stumbles from the Land of the Dead and into de la Cruz's marble tomb. He gropes for his heartbeat, runs fleshy hands over a living face. Through the windows dawn is breaking.

His giddy euphoria is cut short by that final memory of two skeletons, prone and fading as their family huddled around them. All Miguel has of them are their blessings and unconditional love, and the wrong tattered photo. Even as Mama Chel had descended with shoe in hand, Ernesto had ripped the one photo of Coco's papas to shreds. Miguel bends down to reclaim Papa Miguel's stolen guitar. He races for home.

Miguel dodges cousins and Papa and a wrathful Abuelita. Mama Coco doesn't stir when he shuts and bolts the door behind them.

"Mama Coco?" he whispers, kneeling before her wheelchair.

Mama Coco stares vacantly forward. He... He might already be too late.

Miguel swallows back his tearful pleas. His great-great-grandpas had shared their last request. So he inhales, exhales, and evens out his voice as best he can. "Mama Coco? Your papas - Papa Miguel _and_ Papa Tulio - they wanted you have to this."

Strumming Papa Miguel's guitar, Miguel sings in in a soft, heartbroken tone not unlike his Papa Tulio's. He doesn't stop, not even when Mama Coco's eyes open bright and wide, when a smile big as Papa Miguel's spreads across her face. They are lost in their own world when Papa at last forces the door open. Abuelita clasps a hand to her mouth when Mama Coco lends her tremulous voice to Miguel's.

Mama Coco glances up to her daughter, face furrowing with clear-sighted concern. "Elena? What's wrong, mija?"

Abuelita scrubs at her face. "Nothing, Mama. Nothing at all."

Mama Coco smiles at Miguel. "My papas used to sing me that song."

"They loved you, Mama Coco." Miguel sniffles. "Your papas loved you so very much."

If either are paying much attention to the crowd clustered around them, they would see eyebrows furrow in confusion at that consistent plural usage, but none dare question a miracle. Mama Coco turns toward her nightstand. With a slow, shaking hand she pulls out a stuffed notebook.

"I kept... their letters... their poems... and..."

The back of the notebook has been carved away. Out tumble two dice, landing as a seven in Mama Coco's hand. She clutches them even as her other hand leafs through the page for two scraps of paper even more precious. Reverently Miguel receives them from his great-grandmother. Pulling out his picture of her and Mama Chel, he reunites a family at long last. Mama Chel smiles with graceful dignity. Little Coco gazes up at the camera with a confused smile. It must have been hard not to with Papa Miguel and Papa Tulio grinning like idiots, her and her mama sandwiched between them.

"Papa Miguel was a musician... but Papa Tulio always helped him find the words. When I was a little girl, they and Mama would sing such beautiful songs..."

Enthralled, her family gather close.

* * *

Consuelo Rivera and her younger twin brothers had hailed from a humble but loving family. The man she'd loved had been a no-good musician, a thief and a scoundrel, one who had abandoned her without ever marrying her, one who had left their little girl a bastard. Mama Chel had banned music from her family forever. Making shoes had not only granted her family a living, but eventually respect in the village. In time Mama Chel had become the beloved but formidable Rivera matriarch, her sordid past forgotten. The existence of a husband or scoundrel had been immaterial in her granddaughter's worshipful eyes.

These are not the stories Elena Rivera ultimately inherits from her mama. Apparently the gossip from Elena's own childhood had blurred and confused the two young men that had so ardently hung around Chel into one figure. After all, surely Chel could have consorted with only _one_ of them.

Elena does some digging of her own. 'Papa' Tulio Exposito was a drifter that had taken roots in Santa Cecilia. The weighted dice Mama Coco claims as a prize keepsake say all they need to about the man. 'Papa' Miguel Cervantes had been a scatterbrained musician. The family that disowned him traced their roots to _titled nobility._

The birth certificate Elena keeps at home for her mama does not list any father. It does not match the copy for one Socorro Rivera Elena unearths from the bowels of Santa Cecilia's town records.

Elena groans at the _three_ names scrawled there. By shoe-point, Elena knows. Even at that point Santa Cecilia had learned to heed the Rivera matriarch.

"Mama Chel," she groans to her grandmother's portrait. _"Why?"_

Mama Chel's face, young and bright, never changes. The idiots at her sides beam like idiots. Elena wants to hate them. She can dredge up only exasperation, for these idiots also happen to smile like her children and grandchildren.

"Fine, Mama Chel," she concedes. "Both. Both is good."

Elena Rivera is fortunate enough to have three grandfathers, not two. No one dares question otherwise.

* * *

Miguel Rivera does not quite make it in time.

For a moment that lasts eternity, Miguel Cervantes drifts somewhere else. There is light and warmth and peace everlasting. He does not travel alone. His partner smirks wistfully at him, his face whole and stubbled, and squeezes their fleshy hands together. Miguel shiver at the contact, of skin against skin. His nostrils flare on Tulio's scent, still musky. Together they try and fail to find the courage to take that first step into whatever lies next.

Their family tugs them back first. They laugh as they fall away from infinite bliss for something far better.

Miguel wakes with one bony hand still locked with Tulio's. Chel has taken their other hands. With a joyful sob, she reaches for them. Her boys reach right back. Their rib cages tangle together, but this brings them closer than they've ever been.

It has been many decades since their partnership was last whole. Miguel has wasted many decades trying to live in the moment so he would not grieve the family he thought better off without him. Tulio has spilled his hopes and schemes into crossing the marigold bridge. Chel scraped together a living and forged a family business. She has grown old and died without ever letting another lover into her heart.

That does not stop them from rediscovering who they were and what the others have become.

And their wider family already down here, of course. Oscar and Felipe are inseparable as ever. Rosita is delightful. Her brother Julio is a sweet man. Miguel likes him, really. Though it will take some time for him to stop bristling over the fact this man is his _son-in-law._ They even have a _granddaughter,_ Victoria, with Chel's common sense and a wit even sharper than Tulio's.

By the time their Coco comes to them, her parents are all officially Riveras. The Land of the Dead forges marriages that are obviously not parted by death, that care for nothing beyond the love of the souls standing together on the altar. Their Coco is an old woman, small and with long silver braids. She still laughs like a little girl when her papas pick her up and spin her between them.

Coco's first Day of the Dead on the other side is also _Miguel and Tulio's_ first true time. Miguel has never dared the bridge before. Tulio has wallowed in the petals every single time. They cling to Chel and Coco both as the scanners locate their photo. Tulio grins nervously at the guards. They only smile back. Hand in hand, the Rivera family stride over the gleaming bridge and follow the marigold path home.

Santa Cecilia has changed as much as Coco has. Some other year Miguel will really have to marvel at how far the world has come. But not tonight.

Another man might search the Rivera family for curled or golden hair, blue or green eyes. Miguel proudly counts three great-grandchildren and _six_ great-great-grandchildren, all fantastic in their own ways. He can't wait to know them as well as they've learned his stories. His bones are brighter now, their cracks faded. Tulio's broken leg has healed with repaired family ties. They stand proud in new shoes and mended clothes.

Tulio makes a detour for the ofrenda table. Most of their family have shoes of their making rested beside their pictures. Instead he snatches his yellowed dice. While the physical pair remains, he happily pockets their spiritual copy.

Their great-great-grandson is thirteen now. He's taller now, beaming in his brand new mariachi suit. His fingers dance across Miguel's skull guitar, restored to its true family at long last. His voice is strong and certain. As he spins by the older Miguel reaches for the guitar. A familiar weight falls into his hands. He gleefully strums along to a brand new song, one all the kid's own.

Tulio whistles. "He got the best of us, didn't he? Your nimble fingers and my lyrical expertise."

"And Chel's grace," Miguel chimes in.

Their wife buffs her nails. "Don't forget my goods looks."

"That too!" her husbands agree as one.

For a moment Tulio's gaze flicks to the alebrijes. Dante happily chases Pepita around the edge of the compound without disturbing Miguel's performance. Altivo, a regal stallion who has chosen to remain immaterial as the skeletons, ignores them both as he digs into an offering of apples. Then he blinks after the kid again.

"You know what's still bothering me? How did that kid ever get named Miguel in _this_ family?"

Coco smiles. "Why, papa, Miguelito was born on September 29. It was his destiny, his fate, to be named for the archangel. And his mama loved the name just as much as I did."

"Uh huh, mija," Chel drawls. "And _Abel Tulio_?"

"Oh, mama." Coco pats her hand fondly. "That was the name of his great-grandfather on his mama's side."

"...And it was just a coincidence Abel was also the first boy in the family to be born _after_ I died?"

Coco's smile is radiant as Miguel's. Her _smirk_ is all Tulio's. "Well, it certainly didn't hurt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Exposito' was a name often granted to foundlings and 'Cervantes' is a surname used by several families of historical Mexican nobility. Of course the boys' true family was the one they made all on their own.
> 
> In an early draft of this story I toyed with Miguel being a more benign version of Ernesto, but I could not believably twist his character into ever giving up on his family like that.
> 
> Three men can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Miguel gets poisoned much like Hector for trying to bail on Ernesto. Ernesto snatches his guitar and keeps touring. Tulio goes looking for his wayward idiot and gets himself stabbed to death in a dark alley so the both the men who composed and wrote his best songs are out of the way.


	9. (N)ight at the Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel stares down at the long, detailed list of instructions left to him. It's probably an elaborate joke on the new night guard. Deep down, he still hopes everything in his museum really does come to life at night.
> 
> And he's over the moon when it does.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Night at the Museum.

Prior to his first shift as a night guard, Miguel studies the very, very detailed instruction manual bestowed upon him by his predecessors. Cecilio, Gustavo, and Reynaldo are also such nice old men, after all. It had broken their hearts budget cuts at the Museum of Natural History forced them all into retirement. The least Miguel can do for them is ensure he's doing the work of three men.

After all, he _needs_ this job. His background check barely cleared as it was. He can't afford to stoop back into... anything potentially unsavory.

The first steps are easy enough; lock up these doors and switch off these lights. Miguel nods along until one makes him squint. Reading it aloud doesn't make it any clearer.

"Check your keys because the monkey probably stole them." Miguel thinks back to his tour of the exhibits, the stuffed monkey Cecilio had joked to be a 'ball of fun.' He chuckles. "Oh, I get it! Very clever."

It's a sweet little joke to check his reading comprehension. Miguel's smile dims as the strangeness continues; lock up the dioramas so the legions don't war against the llaneros, never turn your back on the lions, do not let Cortes out of storage. It's... It's almost like everything in the museum comes to life.

Turning the page, the first set of instructions on top the second page are highlighted.

_If you made it this far, congratulations. Every exhibit in the museum comes alive after sunset. Do not under any circumstances allow anything to leave the museum at any time. At sunrise everything inside its walls falls inanimate. Those outside crumble into dust._

It's a joke, one very elaborate joke, a final laugh for three old men at a young idiot's expense.

They've put in an awful amount of work on this manual.

Miguel's museum might be magic. He might be its guardian and secret keeper. It's a dream he can't quite convince himself is too good to be true.

Of course Miguel shows up early on his first day. He has even more time to batten down the hatches. After all, it does no one any good if the lions do indeed come to life and try to eat people every night. Miguel talks aloud on his rounds, introducing himself to the wax figures and stuffed animals as the sun goes down. It never hurts to be polite. He leaps at shadows, squints into lifeless faces in the hope to see them blink.

By sundown Miguel has ticked off his last step. He's back in the main lobby, facing a replica Andalusian frozen in a majestic stride forward. A sign regretfully informs viewers Cortes is under repair, but at least his horse is still there to greet them. Miguel pats his belt. His keys are still there.

He laughs to himself as night draws down with nothing out of the ordinary. "Looks like Cecilio got me aft- _EEK!"_

The Andalusian's hoof suddenly slams down. Tossing his head, he prances off his display. Miguel stand still as a statue himself as the horse approaches. He sniffs expectantly at the pocket where Miguel's stowed a midnight snack.

With a shaking hand he pulls out his apple. "H-Here you are, old boy."

In two clean bites it's gone. The horse butts his muzzle against his hand, exhaling a warm, stinky breath.

Miguel squints at his display stand. "Altivo?" The stallion proudly snorts an affirmative. "Hello, old boy. It's wonderful to meet you."

Dark eyes blink expectantly at him. Then Miguel is insistently nosed up into the saddle where Cortes should sit. He clings for dear life as Altivo trots deeper into the museum.

Cecilio's detailed instructions have paid off. Behind bronze bars the Hall of Mammals are safely contained instead of rampaging. All the free-roaming Carnotaurus wants is nose scratches. She wanders after them for a bit before chasing after a bird darting through the paintings. Contained behind thick plastic the Roman legions and bands of llaneros can only make rude gestures at each other. Miguel waves at both sides. A few return it. Most instead direct their rude gestures and withering looks at him. He winces guiltily.

Miguel is a night guard, not a prison warden! Maybe he can try to get a truce worked out between them. Altivo snorts at his idiocy and pointedly trots on.

Most three dimensional exhibits are contained behind glass or plastic. Miguel still greets wax models, Olmec statues, and animate paintings with bright smiles and unerring smiles. They blink at him, before introducing themselves back. Even the ones conversing in their native languages switch to modern Spanish to return his hellos. Whatever their pasts they've all spent decades together before Spanish-speaking tour groups.

Lounging on her Roman chaise lounge, a gorgeous woman with only a chiton wrapped around her lower body appraises him from her painting. "And what has happened to your... predecessors?"

Miguel keeps his eyes on her face. "Unfortunately, my lady, they've all retired."

She quirks a dark brow at him. "And you're all that's left?" She smirks at his guileless nod. "Hooray for me."

Slowly, she sucks a grape from its stem without ever taking her eyes off him. Miguel gapes until Altivo canters onward.

The hall beyond is for traveling exhibits. Currently it hosts a display of Egyptian artifacts, papyrus scrolls and lapis scarabs and stone statues. Its only mummy is from the Greco-Roman period. Miguel bites his lip as he stares down at its description card. _His_ description card. In life he'd been a handsome man, from the dashing, realistic face painted on his sarcophagus lid. Tullius is safely stored under a lid and a glass case. That does not stop his sarcophagus from shaking. Or fully stifle his screams from inside.

Miguel consults his instructions. The museum only has one permanent mummy, excavated from the ruins that might well have been the inspiration for El Dorado. Her golden tablet is the source of the museum's magic. Cecilio's words warn to never, ever let that queen out out. Once her city had worshiped a god of death and destruction. Lord forbid they ever let her turn the tablet's power upon the world.

There are no instructions about _this_ mummy.

Miguel dismounts from Altivo. The horse snaps after his shirt.

The night guard pats his nose. "Easy, old boy. I'd be upset too if I was locked away in a dark, stuffy box for weeks." Especially if he'd been dead for centuries before it.

Whatever wonder fantasy Miguel has stumbled into, it's not a horror story. Most exhibits have been perfectly civil people with him. The animals behave like animals. Even the reanimated Carnotaurus, who is a total sweetheart.

Altivo flicks his tail, snorts dubiously, but steps back all the same.

"Don't worry!" Miguel calls as he pops the case off. "Help is coming!"

Beneath him Tullius pauses in his shouts. Then he starts cursing in a different tone.

When Miguel wrestles the wooden lid off, up pops a mummy still shrouded in yellow linens. Tullius rips has bandages free. Beneath them is the same face from his coffin lid, only red and flushed.

"Oh, _thank gods._ You would not believe how stuffy it is in there."

"No problem," Miguel squeaks out. Because now the mummy is tearing away bandages from his shoulders and lean torso to reveal nothing beneath.

Tullius pauses. Dark blue eyes squint at their surroundings. "This isn't Seville. It definitely ain't DC."

"Um, no." Miguel consults his placard. "Though I think you were in Seville last, but you spend most of your... time in DC normally."

Tullius rubs his temples. His hands flinch back when he realizes they're still shrouded in linens. He frowns down at his bare torso and the sarcophagus he's sitting in. He yelps and tumbles out. Miguel scrambles to catch him. "I-I I'm _dead."_

Miguel winces. This close he can certainly feel the heart hammering in that naked chest. "Well, yes and no."

The Roman glares at him. "I _should_ be dead. And buried." He drags his hands through limp black hair. "Why aren't I still buried? What sort of freaks just dig up bodies from their eternal rest and display them like trophies?"

"I'm sorry about that! So, so-"

Tullius winces and waves him off. He introduces himself by his full name, something very long and very Latin. In return Miguel introduces himself by his full name, something very long and very Spanish. They stare uncertainly at each other.

"Can I just call you Miguel?"

"Only if I can call you Tulio - er, I mean-"

The Roman considers this. "Sure. Why not?"

Miguel shakes Tulio's hand. After a moment the other man catches on and shakes back. Every moment only makes his bandages crumble further.

"Um, you wouldn't have happened to have been buried with any togas or something, have you?"

Tulio frowns up at his sarcophagus. "Not _in_ my sarcophagus." He frowns as he peers around the room. "Hey, where's all _my_ stuff? They couldn't even bring my own grave goods with me?"

Miguel seizes him by the hand and pulls him through the halls. Tulio barely stares at his fellow exhibits, even the Carnotaurus sniffing curiously after him. He's too busy ranting about grave robbers, bastard Brits and asshole Americans. Thank God Miguel packed normal clothes in his locker for the end of his shift. By now Tulio's linens mostly lay strewn behind them in a rotted trail.

Miguel winces. "Better mop that up before I leave."

Tulio awkwardly plucks at the neckline of his borrowed, baggy shirt. "What the hell even brought me back? All of us?" He shakes his head. "Those... giant stone heads technically were never alive at all!"

Miguel takes him by hand and leads him onward. "In 1952 an exploration for El Dorado... er, a city of gold, unearthed a golden tablet buried beside a princess. The first night sunset touched it in these walls, everything in the museum came to life. And it has every night since."

Princess Chel is the museum's prize exhibit. Her stone sarcophagus is gilded. Behind it shimmers a golden tablet, bathed in the light of artificial torches. Tulio's impressed whistle cuts off into a squeak. The stone serpent behind it hisses ominously. It is large enough to crush them both beneath its coils if it ever thought to strike. Instead its head bows pointedly downward. In her coffin the princess yells even louder than Tulio had.

Tulio glances up at the serpent, then over at Miguel. "What's wrong?"

The night guard wrings his heads. "The... The instructions for my job said to not release her. She's... She's..."

Her serpent makes no motion to attack. The mummy Miguel already unleashed stands innocently beside him, normal as a reanimated human being from a dead civilization can be.

Miguel frowns deeper as he considers his other instructions, those little human beings sealed up in their dioramas and dozens more entombed behind glass, and wonders how thin the line between night watchman and prison warden can be. He disdainfully wrenches the booklet from his belt and stalks forward.

"Nice snake," Tulio murmurs to the statue, before creeping his way forward. "Nice snake god. Don't mind us, we're just setting your princess free."

Together they wrench the lid off.

Up sits a goddess, who wipes sweaty black hair from her face.

"Well," she spits, "it's about fucking time!"

* * *

The Museum of Natural History considers its new night guard an impeccable employee. He takes no vacation time, always shows up to work early and leaves it late. Even more importantly, he's the special sort of soul that knows how to keep his mouth shut about... potential liabilities, the kind that see janitors restricted to daylight hours and upper management wondering when they have to blow all their budget on nondisclosure agreements. Not that they ever do. Their museum's... prize possession likes its privacy. The accidents that befall would-be thieves and gossip mongers are always convenient. Too convenient.

Miguel never requests a pay raise for himself. His requests for 'enrichment funding' are always for the museum. That's how every hall winds up with its own wifi password. Management donate old tablets and laptops, loaned out by the night guard. Sane minds know never the rabbit holes of their search histories. Their dioramas seemingly grow larger and more elaborate by the day, as the llaneros establish a railroad that encircles the ceiling of the whole hall. The new road in the Roman exhibit extends through a tunnel into the walls themselves. Not that these paths officially exist.

The Hall of Mammals is playfully redecorated almost like modern zoo exhibits, as if the stuffed animals might come alive at any moment to use their nets and balls and scratching posts. Crates of such supplies pile up in the back. No one dares question why the monkeys need their toys rotated or why inanimate lions need so many copies of the same ball. Those punctured by fangs and claws are quietly thrown out by janitors the next morning. Their shifts all start after sunrise.

In return, the museum attracts a miraculous crowd of mystery donors, artists who donate paintings and sculptors and woodwork for fundraisers. The Impressionist painter who always playfully signs himself 'Simon Bolivar' is always in high demand. Its exhibits gain new clothes and artifacts crafted in indigenous and various historical styles. The museum can play coy with its sources. All such artifacts are 'replicas' after all, sourced from modern materials in ancient styles.

Alongside raw art supplies, Miguel also occasionally requests a stipend for 'field trips.' This is how the museum gains its reputation for guerilla marketing - sightings around the city of actors dressed up like their most famous displays, the Carnotaurus footprints in the park that mysteriously track in and out of the museum, the horse just like 'Altivo' who strides right into grocery stores to raid their apples.

The Egyptian mummy from the Greco-Roman period becomes a permanent part of their museum. The board does not take no as an answer from that other board up in DC that technically own it. The day Tullius is to leave is the day two mummies and a priceless golden tablet will disappear forever, and take their magic with them. This the museum knows well. Their princess has left them numerous letters assuring this blessing by the Dual Gods is now shared at her leisure. If she pares its recipients down to say, three or four people, that magic can endure all day, every day, and none of them would have need to call the museum their home.

Aside from that one mummy, traveling exhibits come and go. When it comes to their own exhibits, the museum becomes notoriously picky at lending them out. Such deals are negotiated by Miguel with the exhibits in question. Sealed records in the archives contain agreements signed by those long dead. Princess Chel and her tablet, the crown jewels of the museum, are never moved.

As that first board of managers edges toward retirement, Miguel remains bright and unwavering in his service. He's aged exceptionally well. If he's aged at all.

Paperwork shuffles. Their beloved night guard retires. Security 'automates' and a night janitor comes on. Or a 'nocturnal liaison' or night shift public relations manager. Miguel is such a common name. He answers to it even if his current alias only includes it as a middle name. His addresses stop rotating until he only lists the museum as his place of residence. The modest locker room has showers. His office, expanded over the years, has a bed big enough for three.

Eventually, Chel and her... associates decide they would like to travel after all. Their museum makes the arrangements. Ostensibly they're loaning out Princess Chel, her tablet, and Tzekel-Kan, the Manoan priest more recently acquired by their collection. His sarcophagus always contains a body, after all.

For the legend surrounding El Dorado and their exclusively, the exhibit is highly prized, so much so that the hosting museum will sign pretty much agreement shoved at them. Yes, the sarcophagi will never be opened. Yes, their guard will have sole watch over them every night they are on display. Yes, the horse comes too. Altivo's addition is always taken to be a sign that the hosting museum have indeed read the detailed contracts and all their conditions, that even the strangest request has been honored, and so the prize mummies are safe in their care.

The priest and princess' guard is not always a blond man. Sometimes he's dashing, with dark hair and a rakish reputation. Sometimes she's even a woman who likes to joke the princess could have looked an awful lot like her self way back when.

Their magic remains elusive as they are. No matter the strange carnage sometimes discovered the morning after, no security cameras ever pick up anything strange. The guards on duty hazily recall a dull, ordinary shift. Their dreams the day after are strange and fantastical, riding dinosaurs around empty halls or soccer matches against Attila the Hun. They are always bereaved when Princess Chel and her guard move on, and the strange magic in their wake fades away.

More than one guard and janitor travels to an old, venerable museum in a certain country to visit some old friends. Deep down they all know that Chel and her husbands always come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain: Tulio should be the cynical new guard scared out of his wits.  
> Also my brain: In what universe would his background check ever clear?  
> Solution: Greco-Roman mummy. I was toying with the idea anyway when I considered setting The Mummy story in Egypt.
> 
> Magic is a strange, wonderful thing. I also love to think the museum's upper management and staff all kinda low-key knew about the weirdness and just tried ignoring it. Then instead of three assholes who treated the exhibits like prisoners they got a guard that wouldn't stop speaking up for them. The plus side: free stunt marketing and a shit down of exclusive artwork to sell for fundraisers, because everybody needs a hobby. Even wax models.
> 
> Exterminators are confused as hell over the advanced Roman road network through the ducts that lead out to every exhibit. Their employers smile, wave off their questions, and pay top dollar. The museum is considered masters of guerilla marketing.


	10. (A)laddin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel's a wandering criminal used to his lot in life. Chel is a princess raging as best she can against a high priest who longs to see her suffer. Fate is fate until a magic lamp upsets everything. Including the genie himself.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Aladdin.

Chel is Princess of Manoa, its only heiress. She is nothing less than polite and composed with all her suitors, even the especially sniveling snakes like this prince from the Southern Isles. Her best friend has no such reservations.

Altivo is an elegant Andalusian, the pride of Manoa's stables. His ancestors were bred for war. He screams like a demon when Prince Hans moves to stroke his nose, rearing up and smashing his way free of his stall. Chel's latest suitor is sent running with a set of muddy hoof prints branding his ass and a strip ripped from his pants. Bugling after the prince for good measure Altivo proudly prances back to her side.

"Who's my sweet boy?" Chel coos, offering up a golden apple. Altivo drops the prince's trousers to happily down it.

Together they retire to the gardens. Chel leans by the fountain, its mist providing some relief against the humid air. Her stallion bends down to graze.

Her father finds them not long after. "I see the wild demon horse broke free from his stall again," her father remarks. Altivo flicks his tail.

"Altivo is so hotblooded," she sighs. "He's just following his instinct."

King Tannabok nudges the prince's scrap of pants. "This one didn't last an hour."

Chel buffs her nails. "Dad, he wasn't worth ten minutes of our time. The King of the Southern Isles has thirteen sons, and he sends us _that?_ It's practically an insult."

"Yes," King Tannabok echoes. "An insult."

It's no secret among the foreign courts that Chel needs to be wed by her next birthday to ever inherit her throne, that her consort must be nothing less than a prince in his own right. New princes always seem to worm their way out of the woodwork for her hand, or at least Manoa's gold. Given the looming deadline kingdoms have been especially unsubtle in their ambitions, and exceptionally crappy in their candidates.

Were it only up to him, Tannabok would have abolished that law years ago, before his daughter was ever born. The priesthood has always prided themselves on tradition. A marriage is not only a secular affair, but a spiritual union before the eyes of the gods. Tzekel-Kan finds it most pleading to his god that the old laws stay in place. Neither Chel or Tannabok are about to let the streets run red with the blood of their people to defy him.

Chel forces on a smile. "Who's next on the list?"

The wry humor falls from her dad's face. "Our next suitor is... not expected for some time."

She swallows a vicious curse. There's some time to go before her birthday. The vultures are waiting for her to really get desperate. "Well, at least it gives me time to do my research."

On paper Prince Hans had seemed the perfect candidate; around her age, far down the line of his own kingdom's succession, and by all reports a sincere young man who dreamed of making his own mark on the world. Only instead of cooperation and healthy ambition Chel had gotten a power hungry rat who thinks himself ten times more clever than he actually is.

Her dad stare at her, loving and desolate. He envelops her in a crushing hug and leaves her to her solitude.

Chel lingers in the garden for only a minute more before retreating to her chambers. Her world maps and notes on international diplomacy are tossed aside in disgust. Instead she buries herself in far more personal problems; reports on taxes, crime, and other issues of her own citizens. Settling on a husband that will help grant her kingdom security on the world stage is a short-time problem. Her people will always need guidance. One day she'll have to rule and protect them all on her own. Tannabok won't stand between her and the priesthood forever.

Tzekel-Kan is still a young man, vigorous in his zeal and his ambitions.

Her head spinning, Chel pushes back her chair and paces her room like a caged animal. She's learned all she can about her people. From a distance, never allowed outside the palace walls except under heavy guard. She is Manoa's future, all her dad has left her mom. Her safety had been paramount.

Now Chel is a grown woman. She needs to understand, to know her people without crowns or guards or walls in the way. If only for one day.

In the dead of night, she steals down to the garden shrouded in her disguise. Chel is about to vault over the wall when a furious snort stops her dead.

Turning around, Chel strokes Altivo on the nose. "Don't worry, you big baby. It's just for a day or two." He stomps a hoof. "No, you can't come with me. I'm not riding to freedom, I'm exploring my own damn city. And I can't do it with your big, magnificent butt shadowing me."

Altivo's ears fall back. He sulks even as she picks apples from the tree behind her to feed him. Despite his melodramatics, he still stands expectantly next to the wall. She kisses his nose, promises to be back soon, and vaults over him to freedom.

If only for a day.

* * *

Chel's troubles begin with an apple.

One moment she's marveling at the marketplace, politely turning down the necklaces and fresh fish waved enticingly at her. Then her eye catches a boy, thin and dirty, reaching for a single green apple. She doesn't quite realize what's happening until he darts off, swerving nimbly around her and into the crowd.

"Thief!" roars the stall owner, raising a blade normally used to chop fruit.

"Calm down," Chel orders in a voice that has commanded obedience since childhood. "It's just an apple."

Furious eyes snap to her her. "It was theft of _my_ property. The boy deserves his sentence!"

Chel glares up at him. "Your claim against that boy would get you laughed out by the king. Lay a hand on him and the law would come down on _you."_

A hand snatches her arm in a grip like iron. Chel's blood chills as that blade turns against her. "And what do you know the law, you brazen little-"

"Excuse me?" butts in a new voice. "Excuse me!"

They both turn toward a stranger, blond and bearded. He has a guitar slung over his back. The man's hold on her slackens. When the stranger puts his arms on her shoulders and gently tugs her away, she slides right from the stall owner's grip.

"Thank you, kind sir," effuses the blond. "I'm so glad you found her." He pouts down at Chel. "I've been looking all over you."

... _What?_

But Chel's out of that man's grip and doesn't have a blade ready to chop off her hand anymore. So she shuts up and plays along.

"You know this girl?" demands the stall owner.

The blond sighs somberly. "Sadly, yes. She's my sister." The stall owner frowns, for they obviously look nothing alike. "Well, she thinks she's my sister, because... you know." He spins a finger around his temple.

"She said she knows the king."

Green eyes consider their surroundings. "She thinks _he's_ the king."

Chel falls on her hands and knees, bowing to an old man obliviously snoring away in the shade of his stall. "Oh, wise king, how may I serve you?" The old man grunts. "Yes, of course."

"Tragic, isn't it? But no harm done." The blond guides her to her feet. Chel rises with a wide, vacuous smile. "Come along, sis. Time to see the healer."

Chel makes eye contact with the dead fish atop the fishmonger's pile. "Oh, hello. How are you?"

Her hero turns his laugh into a cough. "No, no, no. Not _that_ healer."

"Wait a moment..." Dark eyes narrow venomously. _"You!"_

"Time to go," the blond squeaks, dragging her along.

"You debauched my son, you f-"

His final words are lost to the roar of the crowd. Chel and her savior race through busy streets, up onto the rooftops. No one ever thinks to look up.

When her hammering heart subsides into the giddy thrill of a successful escape, she remembers gratitude. "I want to thank you for stopping that man."

"It was nothing at all, really." The blond bites back a smile. "Was this your... first time out recently?"

She smirks back, vaulting over the rooftop he carefully climbs over. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

His face shifts into awe and admiration. "Well, people in this city don't usually stand up for each other like that. Not if it can get them labeled as accomplices. The high priest out here... takes his job seriously." He clutches his chest, no doubt having witnessed Tzekel-Kan carve out a criminal's heart before the square. "Very seriously."

"That's a word for it," she mutters.

He leads her to the top of an abandoned building, gently guiding her around loose planks and fallen beams. Moth-eaten curtains drape the windows that can partially shut out the elements. Proudly stuck to the walls are wanted posters from at least three different kingdoms, all bearing his beaming visage. His windows have prime views of their palace.

"Home sweet home." He grandiosely waves his arms. "It's not much, but it has a spectacular view." He beams toward the palace, lovingly resting his guitar down by the window. "Looks pretty amazing, huh?"

"Amazing," she drawls.

Green eyes widen. "I wonder what it'd be like to live there; to have servants and valets, all the food you'd ever want, a-a-"

"The high priest stalking around every corner?" Chel supplies. "His eyes on you every moment of the day, just waiting for you to finally slip up?"

"Ah. Right." The blond slumps, his bubble thoroughly popped. "D-Do you work at the palace?"

"Every damn minute of the day." She languidly stretches her arms. "I earned my day off."

"I'll say." He throws out a hand. "My name's Miguel."

"Chel," she blurts out automatically. "Call me... Chel."

"Like the princess?"

"...Yeah. Like the princess."

Miguel laughs. "It does seem quite the popular name out here. Hope it doesn't it too confusing, working in the palace with the original and all."

She grins and happily shakes his hand. "Oh, you'd be surprised." Miguel's hand is not smooth and lily-white like Prince Hans', but calloused from his guitar and well-tanned by the sun. He is definitely not a native Manoan. "What even brings you here?"

"Adventure, at first. I came for the city of gold, stayed because... Well, just look at this place." Miguel sighs lovingly out to the city. "There's nowhere else like it on earth. Really, how many other lakes use giant turtles as living ferries? Or spin dancers on poles so they can fly from the air? Even despite its... traditionalists, I just can't bring myself to leave quite yet."

"Yeah," she murmurs. "Neither can I." Manoa is her home, forever and always.

They slowly realize Chel has yet to let go of his hand. Miguel blurts out an apology and weakly tries to pull away. Chel doesn't let him go. They blink at each other, drawing together as the lingering giddiness from the chase ramps up into something else. Chel's soon to to spend the majority of her life married to the least horrible prince she can find. This bold, reckless idiot has enchanted her than any of the last ten royal suitors she carefully researched.

Ah, fuck it. It's not like she's a virgin anyway.

Before they can even kiss, Chima and the rest of Tzekel-Kan's loyal warriors blunder their way inside. Of course they do. "Here you are!"

"They've found me!" Realizing they've spoken in tandem, they turn toward each other. "They're after you?"

"Tzekel-Kan must have sent them," she hisses.

Not like Miguel hears. He's clambered atop his windowsill. "Do you trust me?" he asks, green eyes earnest as he offers a hand.

"Yes," she answers without hesitation, and seizes his hand.

They leap from the window to safely land in a pile of maize flour below. More warriors corner them just as they stumble their way free. Chel is shoved aside. The burly men ambush Miguel, dragging him to his knees. His protests are silenced by a punch to the stomach.

"Unhand him at once," Chel snarls. The warriors sneer at her. "By order of your princess."

Before their hands can dare strike royalty, she throws off the dull blue scarf binding up her hair. The man about to slap her staggers back, falling to his hands and knees. His comrades bow, even forcing Miguel to do the same. He gapes at her.

Chima scrambles from the building, dipping his head to her. "Princess Chel."

 _"Princess?"_ Miguel squawks, before the spear shaft jams into his side.

"Your highness, what are you doing outside the palace walls? It-"

"I am your princess, Chima," Chel repeats. "One day I shall be your queen. You are still detaining an innocent. Release him!"

Chima swallows thickly. Chel is his princess, and Tannabok his king. It is not them the city fears. "I-I would if I could, your majesty, but my orders come from Tzekel-Kan. His authority is technically higher than yours. For now! You'd... You'd have to take it up with him."

Chel glares bloody murder at him. "Believe me, I will."

Stalking ahead of her escort, Chel doesn't bother changing from her servant's disguise first. Upon the reaching the palace she immediately tracks down Tzekel-Kan. The high priest has the gall to bow. Even his neutral face is smug when he asks how he might be of service.

"Your warriors took an innocent man from the city on your orders."

"My only wish is to serve the gods, your highness, and I will do all in my power to keep them pleased. Among my numerous responsibilities is the task of cleansing our city's sacred streets of... unwanted chaos," the high priest recites dismissively. "The man was an outsider, not even one of your... peasants, and a criminal. How could I abide such filth?"

"What was the crime?" she demands.

His eyes glint. "Why, kidnapping the princess, of course."

"No one kidnapped me," Chel grinds out. Her blood chills when she realizes they're both referring to Miguel in the past tense. "What... What was this man's sentence?"

Tzekel-Kan smirks. "Execution, your highness, swiftly carried out. Such blood should not sully our altars."

Chel claps her hands to her mouth to hold back her scream. A low, tortured moan still escapes. Her knees quiver beneath her. Tzekel-Kan is outwardly regretful at such hasty justice. His eyes gleam like a jaguar's.

She forces those tears back for rage. "M-My father will hear of this," she rasps.

"Yes, your highness. Do tell your father how swiftly I act in our people's best interest. Alas, what is done for the gods can never be revoked."

Chel stalks off, shaking from grief and rage. The least she can do is grant Miguel a proper burial.

But she can't even do that. Tzekel-Kan's warriors are all conveniently forgetful on what ditch they've tossed his body into. They've probably thrown him out to the jungle. A jaguar must have dragged him off by now.

Kneeling before the palace's altar to the Dual Gods, Chel prays Miguel safely found whatever gods he keeps. She hopes he found all the adventure and luxury he so craved in paradise. Over and over again, she softly weeps apologies.

* * *

Okay, so Miguel's trapped down in an empty, desolate cave because that old man nearly stabbed him in the back.

On the positive side, Miguel is _alive._ He's even snatched his prize back before that crazy old man sent him hurtling into the collapsing treasure cave below. There might even be another way out if he explores this cave system far enough.

First he squints down at the one prize his 'partner' had wanted, among a hoard of priceless treasures. It's just a dusty old oil lamp.

Miguel snorts. "Guess the old boy was nuts after all."

Curiously, he rubs off the dust to see if there's anything interesting written beneath it. And drops the lamp at the sheer amount of blue smoke to come spilling out. Miguel stumbles onto his ass, yelping as the smoke cloud towers over him and condenses into a colossal, solid figure.

 _"Oh, great one who summons me,"_ rumbles a voice like thunder. _"Terrible one who commands me. I stand by my oath, loyalty to wishes..._ Um, excuse me?" As the voice tapers off a normal, confused volume, Miguel peaks up. He drops his face at the giant blue eye looming over him. "Yes, you. What are doing?"

"Groveling?" Miguel mumbles.

"Groveling? _To me?"_

Miguel indignantly peers back up at that shadowed figure. "Y-You're a giant blue being who lives in a cave of wonders and could squash me like a bug! What else would I be doing?"

The being pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dear gods they don't make servants like they used to. Look, where's your boss?"

"My... boss?" Miguel considers the old man who broke him out of prison, offered him a cavern of treasures in exchange only for a lamp, and then tried to stab him when he tried clawing his way out of a collapsing tunnel. "He broke our agreement and tried to kill me, so he is most definitely not my boss! Also, he's outside. Free. And... not doomed to slowly starve down here in the dark."

"It's just you and me down here?"

"Pretty much."

"...Alone?"

"Just you and me."

The being promptly deflates, shrinking down to a human size. Except for the blue skin and pointed ears, his upper half is human, stubble on his chin and long hair tied back. Instead of legs he has a tail of blue, wispy smoke. "And _you_ rubbed my lamp."

Miguel sits up, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Um, sorry about that."

Deep blue eyes squint at him. The being shrugs. "Eh. Could be worse. Say, d'you mind if I stretch it out over here?"

"G-Go right ahead." The being does, flowing through a variety of shapes and sizes, limbs moving at inhuman degrees. "Er, why are you asking _my_ permission."

"I'm the genie, you're my master. It's how it works." Miguel winces at the deafening crack that echoes through the cavern. "Oh, that's better. A thousand years can give you such a crick in the neck."

Miguel considers that little brass lamp in horror. "Down here a thousand years, or _in there_ a thousand years?"

The genie(?) snorts. "Just me and my lamp." He squints at their desolate surroundings. "Huh. Wonder if the last idiot's security system ever paid off or not."

Miguel plasters on a grin. "At least you're finally free!"

The genie laughs like that's the best joke in the world. Then he floats down to Miguel's level. "You really have no idea what's going on, do you? Genie, wishes, lamp?"

He beams. "Not a clue!"

What follows is a dizzying whirlwind of magic and wonder that leaves Miguel flat on his back, shaking from pure adrenaline and absolute delight. The genie stares expectantly at him. Miguel shrugs helplessly back.

"I-I just explained it all you!"

Miguel sits up, swaying woozily. "Can you run me through the basics again, please? W-Without all the lights and..." Up comes the last of his stolen lunch from yesterday. The genie makes a disgusted sound and magics it away. "Oh, thank you."

The genie plops down on the rock beside him, just as confused as him as Miguel is of this whole situation. "Look, buddy, it's straightforward. You found my lamp. It's simple; rub my lamp, say what you want. You get three wishes. You start by holding my lamp and phrasing every request with 'I wish.' Got it?"

Miguel gamely nods. The genie's power is bound only by a few rules; no wishing for more wishes, no forcing love, no making him kill somebody directly, no raising anyone from the dead. Every wish must be phrased with 'I wish.' That's a fail safe.

"Okay. But... why three wishes?" The genie shrugs. "Fair enough." He squints thoughtfully at where the chasm closed behind him, and then in the tunnels beyond. "You've been down here an awful long time. Does there happen to be an emergency exit somewhere? A secret entrance?"

The genie drags a hand down his face. Miguel's feet lurch dangerously beneath him. The lamp knocks into his stomach as they rocket their way skyward. He instinctively clutches it. The smoke dissipates to blue sky unfolding above and verdant jungle unfolding below. He stands atop a mountain, the very same that had contained a wondrous cavern at its base. The genie laughs, spinning wildly around him.

"Gods, look at this world! It's so... big. Without walls. And not brass. Everything _but_ brass and walls."

In another poof of magic they're both laying in hammocks, swaying side by side. The genie grins up at the very confused parrots in the canopy, utterly at peace. For a time Miguel lays back and just enjoys the quiet. Down in the dark he'd feared never seeing the sun again. His stomach clenches as he considers a genie that has been sealed away from this world for a thousand years.

Thoughtfully he turns the lamp in his hands. "So I make my wishes and you go free?"

The genie snorts. "Three wishes and it's back to the lamp."

Miguel's hands fly off the lamp. "T-That's terrible!"

"Eh. We're a package deal." The genie raps a knuckle against what Miguel had mistaken for a golden gauntlet. Too late does he realize they're shackles. "Phenomenal cosmic power. Itty bitty living space." He throws his arms back. "Only way I get out is if my master wishes me free. You can guess the last time that ever happened."

Miguel makes up his mind then and there. "Well, I'm not your master. I'm your _partner!"_

"...What?"

He beams up at the genie's deadpan stare. "If we're partners my wishes can be your wishes, right? We can use the last one to set you free!"

The genie smirks. "Sure."

"My last wish is your wish. I promise to phrase it however you want me to." Miguel stubbornly holds out his hand. "Shake on it?"

The genie's sneer crumbles. For a moment his face is raw and vulnerable. Then he plasters on wary skepticism. Gingerly, he shakes his hand. "We'll see."

Miguel plows through his doubt. "My name's Miguel. Is... Is there anything I can call you?"

His partner blinks, floored by the question. "...Let me get back to you on that. Now, what do _you_ want?"

Miguel recalls that undeniable connection, a blissful day cut short, a relationship ended before it could truly begin. "There's this woman," he whispers. "A princess. This brave, selfless, beautiful princess who cares about her people so much she'll never stop fighting for them. Even against this priest who does all he can to tear her down, to rip away anything she might call hers. I just... I just want a chance. A real chance to see what we could be. If she even still wants me."

His partner quirks a brow at him. "Even psycho priests have to listen to princes, right? Princes that a princess might theoretically marry?"

Miguel swallows. "C-Can you do that?"

"Phenomenal cosmic power, Miguel." His partner laughs. "I can most definitely do that."

Miguel bites his lip. He's witnessed plenty of processions seeking Chel's hand. "Princes don't just show up alone in fancy clothes. They need an entourage."

"Phenomenal cosmic power."

"...And someone in charge of that entourage who knows how to manage a crowd, who can keep their prince from being too much of an idiot. A partner, even."

"Phenomenal. Cosmic. Power."

"A partner who doesn't look like a gorgeous blue go..." Miguel coughs. "Genie. Gorgeous blue genie. Er, I mean-"

_Poof._

His partner's ears are rounded now, skin pale than deep blue. Beneath a black vest is a shirt blue as his true form. He kicks out a pair of human legs. His long, lean face remains mercifully unchanged. As do his deep blue eyes, long black hair, and persistent stubble. "Is this low enough a profile for you?" When Miguel manages only to gape dumbly back, his partner frowns down at himself. "Maybe I should-"

"No!" Miguel blurts out. " _This._ This is good! This is perfect! This is... you. If you want it to be."

"Tulio. Call me Tulio." A pale hand worries at a golden shackle, pointedly unchanged. "At least like this."

 _"Lord_ Tulio." When his partner blinks at him, Miguel pompously juts out his chin. "A prince keeps only the best company."

"Lord Tulio." His partner puffs out his chest. "I like the sound of that." He winks conspiratorially at Miguel. "But I still need you say the magic words, partner."

Miguel holds up the lamp for all to see, rubbing it generously. "Tulio, I wish to become a prince."

_Poof._

Miguel chokes in a high lace collar. Tulio winces and comments it's just too Hapsburg. In a snap of the genie's fingers Miguel's weighed down by heavy armor. Another snap turns it into bright, frilly silks and tights.

_Poof._

"This," Tulio declares at last. "This is the one."

The brand new prince inspects the mirror that dutifully manifests before him. He's in a simple jerkin and doublet, wearing over actual pants over anything involving tights. Instead of the gratuitous decoration from earlier there's only a slim rapier buckled at his belt and a thin circlet on his head.

"Oh," Miguel breathes. "It's perfect."

Tulio puffs up it. "Yes, it is. Simple but sophisticated."

"Thank you."

His partner falters, a real grin quirking up before his mask of bravado slides back down. "Making miracles is what I do, partner. It's no big deal."

Clothing aside, Miguel looks the same as ever, right down to the beard. He strokes thoughtfully at his beard. "Will people recognize me? I, um, happen to have a wanted poster or five."

 _"You_ have it wanted posters? How is that even..." Tulio shakes his head and lets it go. "Don't worry, no one will recognize you. That's how genie magic works. People see what they're told to see. They do that most of the time anyway."

Miguel blinks at his royal reflection. "Right. And who am I?"

"Prince... Michael. Prince Michael of... of..." Tulio unfurls a map from thin air. "Prince Michael of Corona."

Miguel considers this translation. "Prince Michael of... Crown? Is that a real place?"

"Of course it is. A quaint little trading kingdom. Everybody knows about it. They really have a thing for the sun and take national pride in their... flowers. I-I'll let you brush up on your Coronan history en route."

"H-How are we even going to get there?"

Tulio grandly throws out his hands. "In style!"

_POOF._

* * *

Chel is disturbed from her prayers by a faint murmur from the windows that grows only louder by the moment. She hurries to her balcony. Below the warriors scramble to clear the main street as heralds clad in gold and violet call for them to make way for Prince Michael. Long before she spots the prince himself his kingdom's wealth is paraded out before him. There's gold coins tossed to the audience, dancers and sword jugglers, armed riders upon prancing steeds, a whole damn menagerie. Even her dad taps a hand against the railing from the beat of near a hundred musicians.

"Well, Chel," her dad murmurs to her, "at least this one has... panache."

And a skewed sense of surprise. From Tzekel-Kan's constipated expression not even his spies saw this prince's arrival. For that reason Chel alone perks up. All the more reason to make the bastard squirm.

Tzekel-Kan stalks ahead to try intimidating this suitor like he has so many others. However Chel and Tannabok smoothly keep pace behind him, turning the high priest into their herald rather than a harbinger of doom. All Tzekel-Kan can do is swallow back his sourness and announce them gracefully.

The striking man standing before the prince slips into a grand bow. "King Tannabok, Princess Chel, I am Lord Tulio de Cueva y Lámpara. It is my honor to present to you Prince Michael of Corona, who has traveled far for the honor to seek your hand in marriage."

Her dad eases back into his throne. "It is a pleasure to welcome you to Manoa, Prince Michael."

The prince himself is as handsome as his friend, though in a more dashing than roguish manner. There is almost something heartrendingly familiar about him, even when he swoops into a bow that's a bit too deep and lasts too long. Either he's kissing ass or his home court really demands submission from a prince to a king. "Please, your highness, it is my pleasure to be before you. We've come... a very long way for this honor."

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with Corona," Tzekel-Kan asserts silkily.

"It's... out west," Prince Michael supplies. "Very west."

Chel is not a stubborn isolationist like Tzekel-Kan. She dimly recognizes the kingdom's name, the golden suns on purple. Corona is a small kingdom, one who derives their wealth almost entirely from trade across the Old World. She vaguely remembers some recent drama around their heir, a princess. But of course Prince Michael isn't directly in line for his throne. Tannabok and Tzekel-Kan at least agree Manoa will never be subsumed by a foreign power.

"We come bearing gifts to thank you for your hospitality," Lord Tulio smoothly breaks in.

What follows is a dizzying array of tribute, gold and jewels and spices. Each dutifully appears as Lord Tulio rattles them off, waxing poetic about their qualities. Prince Michael smiles brightly and parrots his responses.

Chel's interest slinks slightly. Great. Another careless prince unable to know even what his own kingdom produces. Only Prince Michael's bravado is not so thick. Behind it is not lust or boredom. He is not ogling her, but the seemingly endless line of gifts, green eyes wide and lost.

As the last gift is finally presented, and the eyes of the crowd are still upon his tribute, Prince Michael stealthily squeezes Lord Tulio's hand in thanks. Chel's heart melts just a little. And even more when someone who is _at least_ a very good friend squeezes back.

When her dad flicks his gaze to her, Chel inclines her head ever so slightly.

"We thank you and Corona for such... extreme generosity, Prince Michael," Tannabok says at last. "My daughter and I hope you and Lord Tulio can join us tonight, when we celebrate our harvest."

Prince Michael beams. "Of course, King Tanni...bok. We wouldn't miss it for the world."

Hours later, they're both there, dressed in more formal versions of what they wore that morning. Grinning like an idiot, Lord Tulio immediately beelines for the wine and prettiest faces in the crowd to party like he hasn't partied in a thousand years. Prince Michael fondly shakes his head after him. Then he is swamped by curious courtiers and ambitious ladies out to snag themselves a prince. Chel bites back a grin at his utter bafflement, and even wider when Lord Tulio wades his way in. He brings their attention on himself, and not the prince pleased by the attention as he is mortified by it.

Her grin dies as Tzekel-Kan prowls his way through the crowd. Chel rises from her throne.

"Prince Michael," Tzekel-Kan simpers. "Might I be so bold to have a word? Privately." His disdainful gaze slides to Lord Tulio, who is not quite royal blood. "This does not concern your... servant."

A lord has every right to bristle at such derision. Lord Tulio flinches with something else entirely, before his eyes narrow. "Unfortunately, Prince Michael's schedule is quite packed tonight. Perhaps another time, another place?"

"Indeed," Chel breaks in. She relishes the priest having to bow to her presence, then casts her gaze upon this newest suitor. "Prince Michael, I believe it is time you asked me for a dance."

With a grand flourish, he offers a hand. "It would be my honor, princess."

Together they swan out into the dance floor with the bold confidence perfected by royals and bullshit artists. Not about to be left alone with the fuming priest, Lord Tulio snags the closest girl and follows.

To her delight, Prince Michael indeed knows how to dance. He falls right into the rhythm, never steps on her feet. He happily lets her lead. "I've never danced much in this style before," he confesses. "On this I'll bow to the expert."

"Oh?" she teases. "How do you dance back home in Corona?"

"Um..."

Lord Tulio breaks away from his dance partner, spinning into his own flamboyant routine. Most in the hall pause to watch him, mesmerized or scandalized by such showmanship. Young women and no small amount of men watch in avid interest. From somewhere up his vest Lord Tulio offers up a rose. To a different woman. By the time he's realized his mistake, his original partner has already flounced off.

Chel snickers. She turns back to Prince Michael to catch him picking his jaw off the floor. "Not... Not like that," he squeaks out. He is flushed. Very flushed.

"Do you need some air?"

Prince Michael's shoulders square. Something wonderful glints in his eyes when he shakes his head and asks for another dance. She accepts.

His whisper to Lord Tulio is passed onto the band. A new tune starts up, one usually not played outside visits from the Iberian kingdoms. Prince Michael swoops her into an adventure of her own.

Inevitably other partners try to worm their way in, those out to snag royal marriages for themselves or at least prevent Chel from finding a husband. Lord Tulio always swoops in to steal her first. Like Prince Michael, he dances with his heart on his sleeve, and he lets the whole palace know how pleased he is to be dancing with their princess know. And how pleased the princess is pleased.

Chel spends most of her night happily juggled between two partners who keep her away from the usual vultures. Except for that one dance late in the night when Prince Michael and Lord Tulio drunkenly dance off together. They move so instinctively, so gleefully, Chel just sits back and enjoys the show.

Feet aching and heart full, Chel retires to her chambers with more hope she's had for the future since her mother died.

She's brushing her hair out when whispered bickering erupts from her balcony. Either these are the worst assassins in history or... Yeah. Chel strides outside and smirks. "Hello, boys."

Lord Tulio stops reaching for his partner's throat, slinging an arm over his shoulder's instead, before just flinching away from him altogether. "Hello, princess. Nice night, isn't it?"

Chel considers the beautiful view before her. "Absolutely spectacular."

"P-Prince Michael thought so too, so much he had to-"

Prince Michael sighs, shoulders slumping. "Tulio."

"Not now, _Prince Michael._ I was just telling Princess Chel what a nice night it is to-"

"Tulio, please."

The other man crosses his arms, slouching into himself. "Fine. It's your funeral."

Prince Michael smiles tenderly at him. "I wanted a chance, and you gave it to me."

"A chance for _what_?" Chel breaks in bluntly.

Prince Michael's lips quirks into that heartrending grin again. "A chance for _my_ day off."

Chel staggers as her vision spins. Something finally clicks into place. That grin is _his_ grin. Why the hell didn't she see it before? His disguise is a nice change of clothes! "H-How in the... What even _is_ your name? Your _real_ name?"

"I told you the first time. My name's Miguel." He quietly slides his circlet off. " _Just_ Miguel, called Miguel."

"Until this morning," his partner murmurs sternly back.

"B-But that doesn't really..."

"It counts because I _made_ count!" he snaps. "Do you think your wish boiled down to a change of clothes and a fancy entrance? Unless someone makes it otherwise, you are what you are."

Chel shivers at those words, the power burning in deep blue eyes. "And what are _you?"_ she counters. She regrets her word choice the moment he flinches back. " _Who_ are you?"

He miserably twists one of his gauntlets. "I'm... I'm just a g... Just-"

"Just Tulio," Miguel finishes. "My partner Tulio." He slips a brass oil lamp from his baggy shirt. Chel's breath hitches in understanding even as Tulio skitters back. Miguel does nothing other than to quietly pass it into his partner's hands. "She deserves the truth, Tulio, but you don't have to be here for it if you don't want to. I promise our deal still stands. We shook on it."

Chel shivers in the chill night air. Anyone can look upon her balcony and realize two figures that should not be up there. "We can continue this conversation inside. If either of you two want. Really, Miguel, you owe me nothing. Somehow you're safe and sound even though my idiocy almost killed you. Knowing that is more than I deserve."

Miguel quietly shuffles after her. After a long moment Tulio follows. He maintains a death grip on the lamp. _His_ lamp.

They all settle down on her couch. The truth tumbles out of Miguel. Upon the story of his capture, Chel narrows her eyes. How generous of Tzekel-Kan to throw an outsider into a spacious cell rather than execute him on the spot. A cell with a secret passage to freedom and an old man that had promised riches beyond compare in exchange for retrieving a single, humble lamp.

Miguel's blind trust in this extremely shady man had nearly killed him once again.

Chel swallows thickly. "Miguel," she croaks out. "D-Do you remember that what knife looked like?"

"Big," he answers. "But not made out of iron. It was black and shiny."

An obsidian knife. A high priest's sacrificial blade. Chel snarls. "Tzekel-Kan!"

"The high priest? W-Why would he..." Tulio sighs and wearily raps a hand against his shackles. Those are shackles. Miguel's shoulders slump. "Oh. Right."

Tzekel-Kan has railed against Chel's dad for years to reforge Manoa into his own image, into that of his Jaguar God. What might that madman do if he could simply wish himself king _and_ high priest, to make himself the greatest sorcerer in all the world? To unleash his god? To make _himself_ the god.

Tulio clears his throat. "Excuse me, Miguel, I do believe this is where I come in."

"Ah. Right."

Together they finish their tail, commenting on each other's point of view and breaking in with fond reminiscence. They've known each other a day. They already act as if they've known each other all eternity.

When it comes to exact reasoning of his first wish, Miguel stammers and skips over it. Tulio rolls his eyes and informs her this beautiful idiot just wanted a _chance_ to be with her in a circumstance Tzekel-Kan couldn't use against them. Chel beams. That interest is very mutual.

Chel beholds this beautiful, reckless, selfless man that could have simply wished himself married to his princess and used that third wish all for himself. She bites her lip to refrain from tackling him right then and there. "Trust me, Miguel, you _definitely_ have the chance." Hell, _she_ has the chance. She has months to properly court her 'prince.' If they get married there's nothing in the law that states her consort _has_ to stay with her. Her gaze flicks to a partner still awaiting his promise. "So maybe it's time to hold up your end of the deal now."

Miguel coughs. "Yes, about that. I've, er, decided my second wish is _your_ wish, Chel. To be delivered by myself, in your exact words. Tulio gets his wish immediately after that."

"A-Are you kidding me?" Tulio splutters. He glances at Chel. "Er, no offense."

"No," Chel agrees. "I'm with you on this one. It's your wish, Miguel. Do something good with it!"

"Nope," he says brightly. "It's all yours, Chel. I'm sure you know just what to do with it." His green eyes flick between them. "Besides, if she's in, then we're _all_ in."

Tulio splutters indignantly. He's exasperated, not actually angry. So Chel holds out a hand to him first. "Partners?"

His hand takes hers immediately. "...Partners."

"Partners!" Miguel proclaims, shaking both their hands at once.

Tulio regretfully informs her he cannot kill Tzekel-Kan directly, but coyly suggests things like wishing him over the open sea without a ship or atop a volcano about to erupt. Chel appreciates his creativity. She does not want to make the high priest a martyr.

No. She wants him to realize how swiftly their people will recover from his reign of terror, how quickly they will forget him and his Jaguar God.

Word by word, she writes down her wish. Her boys read it over. And read it again.

"Well?" she prompts. "What do you think?"

"Yeah," Miguel murmurs weakly. "That... That should about do it."

Tulio whistles. "I'll say." He arches a thoughtful brow at her. "Sure you don't a proper set of wishes, Chel? If Miguel hands off the lamp for a bit it won't affect his wish count at all."

Chel shivers at what she could do with such power. There's a reason she has kept her one wish as precise as possible, to be delivered upon the approval of both partners in question. Miguel does not quite seem to have realized he must have rewritten history to squeeze one more prince into Corona's family tree. She doesn't know how the kingdom at large has been effected. Gods forbid her good intentions somehow spawn a problem worse than Tzekel-Kan.

"No," she grinds out. "Miguel and I have a promise to keep."

Tulio shivers under their stares.

Not long now. Not long at all.

* * *

Tzekel-Kan has called for a reverent dawn ceremony right after the wild party. Of course he has. He wants to catch his guests hungover and miserable. He wants a prince to piss his pants after witnessing the Jaguar God's brutal version of justice. The sacrifice is a humble acolyte caught stealing a lesser idol to try paying for enough medicine to support a sick child. Miguel and Tulio are granted front row seats beside Chel and her father.

Tulio isn't worried in the slightest. Miguel carefully recited Chel's wish hours ago. Her words simply have a very specific sense of timing.

Tzekel-Kan delivers a grand speech to ramp up his few true followers, to stir the majority of the city into true terror. He raises his cudgel. "Such defilement of the temples, such brazen theft... demands... _sacrifice."_

_BOOM._

With a surreptitious snap of Tulio's fingers, thunder booms in a cloudless sky. Tzekel-Kan stares up in absolute bewilderment.

Down comes the bright, dramatic thunderbolt.

_CRA-ACK._

When the smoke clears, the intended sacrifice sits utterly unharmed, his bindings singed clean off and the drugs in his system purged. He blinks in bewilderment at the crowd, then behind him. Tzekel-Kan's cudgel has clattered harmlessly to the ground. Beside it, in a bundle of the holy garb, something mewls. Up pops something small, spotted, and utterly adorable.

It is not a jaguar cub. It is not even a baby ocelot. It is an ordinary kitten. His angriest squeaks inspire only coos from the crowd.

Recovering fast, King Tannabok strides onto the altar as the intended sacrifice scrambles down. He scoops one very disgruntled kitten under one arm, heedless of the tiny teeth gnawing at him, and proceeds to quiet the crowd down before their shock and confusion can bubble over into something else. In the crowd below three very smug partners bite back laughter and smirks.

Everyone agrees the gods are obviously displeased. The source of their ire is clear to the whole city, who has just witnessed their fearsome high priest magically transformed into the teeniest, cutest version of his great god.

Chel squeezes their hands before necessity drags her off. "Sorry. Damage control."

Tulio and Miguel both grin like idiots and wave after her. Then Miguel turns uncertainly to him. "Is-Is it time?"

Tulio pats his vest, where his lamp lies secure against his skin. "Not yet. Our partner should be here for it."

For a time the city simply celebrates the sudden demise of its Jaguar God cult. No one else is willing to fill the void after what happened to the last guy.

When Chel can finally afforded to be missed, Tulio spirits them all off to a quiet corner of the palace. Pointedly he manifests in what could pass for his true form. Chel ogles his torso for his lack of clothing, and not its blue skin. So does Miguel. Gently Tulio passes the lamp back into his hands.

"W-What should I say?"

Tulio has long considered these exact words. There had been little else to do in his lamp but daydream impossible things. Originally his ideal of freedom had been with his powers and immortality more or less intact, great as they could be without being bound to the lamp. The more masters Tulio had suffered, the more he had witnessed other magical creatures and spirits bound and broken to the wills of kings and sorcerers, the more jaded in this dream he'd become.

A free genie had no arbitrary limits forced upon them by the lamp. A sorcerer that could capture a freed genie had a slave that offered limitless wishes, in exchange for slightly reduced range.

He exhales shakily. "Just wish to set me free. I... I'll take care of the rest."

"A-Alright then." Miguel clears his throat. "Tulio, I wish... I wish to set you free."

Tulio loves vague wishes. They're so handy in ridding himself of bad masters. This one is almost boundless. As his shackles disintegrate, phenomenal cosmic power sings through him whole and unbound, if only for a moment. He works his last and greatest trick.

Then the magic billows out of him like smoke. When the last of it dissipates he's collapsed on his hands and knees, mortal and powerless as his partners. They help him to his feet as the last of his lamp melts into oblivion.

"W-Wait," he pants out. "Tell-Tell me to do something."

"Kiss me," Miguel breathes, before his partners gawk at him. "Oh... Right."

Chel considers a command actually worth disobeying. "Get me... some jam."

"Get some yourself!" Tulio crows back, seizing them in his arms. Kissing them both at once is a logistical problem now that this is how only shape, but by gods does he learn to appreciate good old human ingenuity.

When they stumble out of hiding hours later, grinning and breathless, no one questions their absence.

Decrees have been flying off King Tannabok's desk all day, all involving the repeals of his kingdom's most... archaic laws. No one questions him.

With the marriage law off the books, Chel can marry both her partners when they so choose, whatever their blood. Tradition had only cared for the _lineage_ of consorts, not their number. But this is something Chel and her boys do not need for many years yet. There are adventures to be had and arguments worked out. They actually need time to actually _know_ each other beyond some banter and an innate connection.

Long before their own wedding, they attend another family affair. In Corona.

As Prince Miguel's 'partner,' Tulio has a front row seat in a gleaming cathedral, in the same pew as Chel, Miguel, and _Miguel's parents._ The King and Queen of Corona. Everyone tries to hold back tears, even two horses and a chameleon, as Miguel's older twin sister at last marries the lovable idiot that's been asking her for years.

Rapunzel is not that princess' birth name, but she's more comfortable with the one used all her life, even if it was granted by an evil witch who kidnapped both royal babies. He younger brother, without her magic hair, got dumped into an orphanage and wondered down to Spain before miraculously reunited with them. If their princess can be named after a vegetable, then Corona can accept their prince preferring the Spanish version of his middle names.

Though he's been 'reunited' with his family for years, Miguel still gawks at them like they'll evaporate like mirages. He's just as bewildered of the old paintings of two babies, gold-haired and green-eyed, as he is of the more modern family portraits painted between his 'return' and his _return._

As he gains a former thief as a brother-in-law, Miguel glances hopefully back at Tulio.

His partner shrugs smugly back.

Phenomenal. Cosmic. Power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tulio could have easily been the street rat. This would have been a longer fic as he falls back on the princely lie and can't just find the willpower to actually let this stubbornly optimistic genie go until it's almost too late. And this story could have mutated into another full fic like the The Little Mermaid chapter.
> 
> But Miguel and his stubborn sincerity solved this angst fest in like a day, so since this is a one shot series, he gets to be thief.
> 
> Genie magic can rewrite time. Thought Tulio did so in a way that did very little to the time stream beyond jamming in a baby brother to Rapunzel only rediscovered after she was.


	11. (Q)uints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The odds of naturally conceived quintuplets are one in fifty-five million.
> 
> Finally, they've won a lottery.
> 
> Tulio swoons back in a dead faint.
> 
> Or: a fusion with that obscure movie Quints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quints is a very old Disney Channel movie that aired back in the day. It is also one of the few franchises I know that starts with letter 'Q.' And so...

Tulio and his partners travel through life with no maps and no plans. It really should be no surprise their kid turns up the same way - by the smell of clams making Chel vomit all over Miguel.

Unplanned doesn't mean unwanted. Not for them. Tulio's stumbled into Chel and Miguel through blind luck. Now the same has given them the kid they've all wanted in some vague, nebulous future. That future is due in less than nine months. It's _their_ future.

By the time of the first ultrasound, that future has crystallized somewhat. Miguel and Tulio bickered over proposals. Chel has turned them both down flat, at least on a _national_ level. In the eyes of her village, who have never quite embraced everything the Spaniards thrust upon them, their marriage has already stood for years. Tulio's many lawyer friends already have three wills in progress to dictate guardianship. When kids are involved, there has to be _some_ map for all the scary turns life might take in the years ahead.

In the waiting room, Chel settles down between them. Miguel blithely smiles through the odd looks sent their way. Tulio tries to fake the same unbridled joy and ignore the eyes staring at them. Chel makes eye contact with every last one of them, smiles a predatory smile, and proudly squeezes her partners' hands. They sit in peace after that.

The ultrasound technician is a young, sweet woman who does not drop pointed comments about surrogacy or prenatal DNA tests. Tulio finally relaxes, squinting up at the screen for his first glimpse of their kid.

Their joy curdles somewhat as the technician's wand probes over Chel's belly, again and again. Fear gnaws in Tulio's belly. It's a cold comfort the technician is not concerned. Just very, very confused.

He's the first one to find the courage to speak. "A-Are we too... too early for the heartbeat?"

The technician smiles wide and frantic. "Oh, there are heartbeats alright."

Miguel perks up immediately. "Twins!"

Chel sags. _"Twins?"_

Their technician squints up at the screen. "Well, not exactly."

Miguel gasps in delight. "Triplets!"

Chel's eye starts twitching. Tulio plasters on a grin. His grip on Chel's hand grows sweatier the longer the technician deliberates, when an actual doctor is called in. They count, then count again. Miguel leans over their shoulder with wide, fascinated eyes.

The odds of naturally conceived quintuplets are one in fifty-five million.

Finally, they've won a lottery.

Tulio swoons back in a dead faint.

* * *

Miguel is over the moon. Until a solemn lecture from the doctor brings him crashing back to earth.

One day, five healthy babies will eventually be released from the hospital and allowed to go home. In the best case scenario. Miguel can't consider anything else. He just _can't._ Chel assures the doctor in no uncertain terms the best case scenario is _their_ scenario. They're bringing all their babies home. No matter what.

Home for them is a crappy apartment just snug enough for three. Their Wyoming King takes up almost all of the one bedroom in their one bedroom. There was room to squeeze one kid in there with them. Maybe. If they raised that kid to not care much for personal space.

Tulio ran away from a series of crappy foster homes. Miguel can go crawling back to his own biological family. Alone. With any babies that are biologically is. Hell, they might just kick him out again to ensure he doesn't screw up another generation of their line.

Yeah, not happening. Not now, and not ever.

After stumbling out of the obstetrician's, Chel calls _her_ family to tell them the good news. Good news five times over.

Over the phone, Chel's mom curses her own mother. Apparently Mama Sol prayed a little too hard she might live to see great-grandchildren. She and Papa Cleto won't have to worry about that anymore.

The Granado family have managed their farm for generations. Their compound certainly has room for another. It's an excuse to redo one of the wings shuttered up since Papa Cleto's many siblings chose lives elsewhere. Maybe with quintuplets on the property Chel's aunts and extended family will finally visit more.

That compound is in also a village far out from the closest major hospital. At least their apartment is strategically located in the city. It can be home for a while longer.

The months pass in a dizzying blur. Miguel and Tulio tag-team rubbing Chel's back through violent morning sickness and scrambling outside to fulfill her latest cravings. Their incomes, never the largest, go toward vitamins and doctor visits. Yet their accounts are never emptied. Chel's village is so close to each other they might as well all be family to one another. They send cards and checks and enough baby stuff to have crammed their apartment up to the roof. Thank God Mama Sol has directed all such tribute to the family compound, to furnish their new nursery wing.

Such gifts and hand-me-downs are nothing compared to the checks waved before their noses by news outlets and documentary crews. With words like _superfecundity_ being thrown around their family, the money thrown their way is juicy even by American standards, the sort of money not even Miguel's birth could sneeze at.

By this point they've spent sleepless nights not only researching childcare, but other families of multiples. The cautionary tale of the Dionne quintuplets, the first such siblings to fully survive birth, especially haunts them. Miguel politely turns down the offer of a television series with his brightest, fiercest smile. Tulio stares a producer in the eyes as he rips up a six figure check.

The real jackals try slipping past Chel's husbands to try preying someone they believe a desperate, hysterical pregnant woman unsure of who actually fathered her children. These are the suckers who slink off with injuries no one wants to admit came from a furious mama bear.

Vultures aside, they all focus on the babies. All five of them are thriving. The doctors refer to each one by a letter - Baby A through Baby E. They do so out of simplicity, to better track each one's health. Miguel finds the concept adorable. He tears through baby books weeks before they find out the genders. By the time they know he's more than ready for his grand announcement.

"Adan, Beatriz, Carlos, Debora, and Eduardo!"

His partners glance at him, then at each other, before arching their brows at him.

"What?" he demands.

Tulio rubs the back of his neck. "Well, you know."

"Do I?" Miguel sniffs. "It's not like I named them all with the same letter!"

"This... isn't much better. Your suggestions might actually be even more on the nose."

He crosses his arms. "Oh? And what names have you been cooking up these last four months?"

"Um..." Tulio turns hopefully to Chel. "I was kind of figuring we could name them for your family?"

Their wife firmly crosses her arms above her giant belly. "As middle names, sure. Our kids are already growing up Granados. They don't need anything else recycled."

In they each write down ten names, five for girls and five for boys. Thirty folded slips of paper, blue and pink, are dumped into a hat and tossed around. Chel, being the to actually carry these quints, gets first pick. "And Baby A is... Marco." She holds up her name. "Any objections?"

Her husbands nod their approvals, then both race each other for the hat. Tulio snatches a pink slip first, one of his own. "Yes! Baby B is Leyre."

Miguel sniffs dramatically, before his lips quirk up. "Well, it is a pretty name." He snags a blue paper. "Alejandro." A name he'd admittedly intended for Baby A after Adan got nixed, but nice nonetheless.

Silently he and Tulio both pass Chel the hat. "Roxana."

Miguel puffs up, because that's one of his names, and even further when Chel reveals the pink slip written in her own hand. "Great minds think alike!"

Chel slides the hat back to them. This time her husbands grin to each other and reach down together. Their fingers find a single name.

"Eugenio," Miguel reads.

"Really?" Chel groans at him, because Baby E is an E after all.

Tulio raises a guilty hand. "I like the sound of it, okay?"

Eugenio he remains.

* * *

Chel's first weeks of motherhood are spent in daily visits to the hospital. Her babies are small, red faces bundled in the brightest hats and blankets her mom, grandma, and aunts can knit. The prenatal care unit is inundated under teddy bears and other things donated by her dad, grandpa, and big brother Javi. When they can't smuggle in the guitar, Miguel and Tulio drown out the beeps of heart monitors through singing and general chatter. They'll fill the air with nonsense. Long before the smallest babies are able to be safely held in the arms of their fathers, they learn their voices.

Chel and her husbands are not alone. While dad remains home with her grandparents, Javi and her mom have rented a place for themselves in the city. They're helping hands as their kids released from the hospital one by one. Then Chel has to agonizingly her time with the babies at home with those still waiting release. Ale and Xana are such tiny, tiny babies.

The day their last two kids are released, Miguel and Tulio shuffle their way out of the hospital. It's the wildest they can dance with baby carriers under their arms.

The ride back _home_ is a convoy, two cars following a borrowed van. It takes hours and many emergency stops for crying babies. Chel is thankful for every last fussy moment, because. Finally, the worst of it is over.

Oh, for very wrong she is.

It is only just begun.

What follows is an endless blur of diapers, bottles, and crying. So. Much. Crying. There is squinting at feeding schedules, collapsing over husbands in bed, and arguments that break out over ideal bottle temperature. Thank God for parents and grandparents. Familial support keeps Chel and her husbands from collapsing into hysterical wrecks.

Her kids growing from crying poop machines into beings with actual personalities is as horrifying as it is fascinating. Marco can only be lulled asleep by Miguel's guitar. Ley screams bloody murder if she gets picked up when trying to hold up her own head or do something else on her own. Ale wants to be held and never let go. Xana quietly lays there, near lost in the chaos, but breaks out giggling the moment Miguel pulls a voice or Tulio uses his baby voice. Geno, with his papas' jealousy and flair for the dramatic, is prone to starting off chain reactions in the nursery if he's ignored too long.

When the kids discover how to move under their own power, each day becomes a constant struggle to keep all five alive. They get their light fingers from Chel and Tulio. The reckless courage that makes them wander away or stick forbidden objects in their mouth is all from their papas.

Or so Chel thinks.

"Please, Chel," her mom says one day. "Javi was the good baby. You were..."

"Difficult?" her dad supplies.

"A demon," her grandmother says bluntly. Her husbands bite back smiles behind her back. "But you learned."

Her grandpa cryptically sips his coffee. "Eventually."

Marco has Miguel's sense of wonder and wants to be a musician just like him. Ley is enthralled by the luchador matches up north they pirate. She is the village's undisputed wrestling champion, able to pin down boys three years older. Ale contentedly holes up inside with his nonfiction books. Xana is a butterfly that happily flutters between her siblings. She has a habit of sneaking animals home also inherited from Chel. Geno is fearless and bold as his papas, though his ability to spin convincing bullshit from thin air is all Tulio's. When their five little idiots get themselves in trouble, they turn to Geno to talk them out of it. He's learned from the best. Not that Geno minds groundings. It's just an excuse to hold up with his many adventure books.

Now that their quintuplets have grown into adorable little hellions, the producers are especially avid in their offers. Some are foolish enough to journey all the way out to the village to make their offers in person.

The quints are the best and worst of their parents. If the producers want to see her children, Chel unleashes them without mercy.

Their lives are lived still lived without maps and without plans, mostly because no plan survives contact with the quints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quints is a Disney Channel movie about a teenage girl that winds up with five little siblings. The movie plays out almost like a kid's version of the nightmare exploitation the Dionne quints suffered growing up, before of course the big sister saves the day. This one shot was more about giving our idiots five babies and the chaos that ensues. And very protective parents giving very large middle fingers to the exploitation parents of multiples can still face today.
> 
> The babies in the Quints movie are unironically named Adam, Becky, Charlie, Debbie, and Eddie. The babies here became shot outs to other versions of kids/descendants I've given these idiots across my fics.
> 
> A family mine was close to growing up had triplets around my sister's age. The only reason they survived was because both sets of grandparents lived by and were extremely involved in raising those kids. Fortunately our OT3 has at least one supportive family in the group, one that can be alive and happy in a modern setting. 
> 
> I am aunt to identical twins and used to teach. Entertaining and disciplining small children is one thing. Entertaining two babies too small for any sort of structure and that were extremely jealous of the other getting attention was another kettle of fish.


	12. (X)anadu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Muses are old as song, old as art. One of them had to responsible for roller disco.
> 
> Unsurprisingly, that Muse is also the one inexplicably attracted to mortal con artists.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Xanadu, because there are only so many 'X' franchises in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xanadu is literally a neon musical where the Muse Terpsichore comes to earth to inspire a schmuck artist to open a roller disco with her old flame. 1980 was... quite a year.

The Muses are old as song, old as art. Their names are myriad as their forms. The same Muse that might be the young maiden one century to inspire a maestro to compose a symphony may have been the beardless youth three hundred years that inspired some of the most striking Renaissance paintings. A Muse takes no favorites. They come and go as they please. A Muse is a fickle force, one that can't held for long. Human sentimentality is beneath them, a lowly thing for beings bound by flesh and bone.

Today the Muse of music and dance glides down to earth on roller skates, blond and beaming. The man wondering down a sidewalk is lost in his head. Only nearly being bowled over by a blond on roller skates makes him squawk and duck out of the way. At that exact moment a car passes on the street, disco music blaring through its open window.

With a final grin, the Muse laughs and races out of that man's story. This near accident will sit with the man and one day inspire the first roller disco. The Muse is pleased beyond words.

Pleased enough to keep skating down the street, wind whipping through blond hair and at baggy clothes. The mortal world is so _fun,_ ever-changing and unpredictable. Maybe the Muse can inspire a few more artists. Or just enjoy winding around flustered pedestrians.

The Muse breezes past a crowded alley alive in commotion. It's enough to make the Muse grind to a halt, then curiously wander back to its source.

Out here there is no one to enchant, no expectations. The Muse shifts to a face favored since the Renaissance. Roller skates melt into normal shoes. Long blond hair is flicked up to barely past the ears. Shoulders broaden and curves alter.

No one notices. They're all too busy with their dice game. The Muse stands back to watch.

This is a rough game, all crude language and vicious betting. The Muse's eight siblings would turn their noses up at such base entertainment. This Muse notices elegance. At least in the striking, dark-haired man who makes each toss of his dice a dance. His jibes and catcalls are all careful rhetoric that wear away at the inhibitions of his competitors.

Green eyes lock with blue. The gambler falters, but only for a moment. His dice tossing grows ever more complicated. His bets are bolder, his winning pile larger.

Too bold.

"Your dice are loaded!"

The gambler snatches up his weighted dice. His stammered protests fall on ruthless ears. As the crowd presses in, there is no escape.

The Muse cannot allow such talent to be stabbed to death in a dark alley. Not this time.

"I knew it!" Eyes turn upon the Muse. The gambler stutters when he is slapped across the face. "I thought we were partners, you two-timing bastard! And now you're trying to keep all the money for yourself!"

The gambler gapes only for a second. "Excuse me, partner, but you gave me loaded dice!" He waves the dice in question at their bewildered audience. "He gave me _loaded dice!_ Was our winning streak a lie too?"

Their brash argument evolves into the hurling of insults and then a melodramatic fistfight that quickly clears space in the alley. When the opening comes, the gambler bolts for it. He drags the Muse with him. They race through winding alleys and leap over fences. The Muse laughs in delight.

At the end the gambler falls against a wall, sweaty and chest heaving for breath. After a beat the Muse mimics him, mussing a hand through pristine hair.

"T-That was too close," pants the gambler.

"Nonsense!" laughs the Muse, slapping him across the back. "You're alive, aren't you?"

Blue eyes rove over the Muse's form, before blushing. "Because of you. You saved my skin back there."

"It's a nice skin. Too nice to get torn up like that."

The gambler gawks at him. The Muse contentedly basks in the attention, staring right back. The sight is nice indeed. The gambler coughs and holds out a hand. "Er, my name is Tulio by the way."

The Muse considers a long list of names and smirks as the perfect one comes. "Call me... Miguel."

He's inspired enough visages of the archangel, after all.

Tulio offers to treat him to dinner. It's the least a 'partner' can do. What follows is the best night Miguel's had in centuries, even before they tumble into bed.

When Tulio collapses into the pillows, beaming despite his utter exhaustion, Miguel takes a moment longer to admire his beauty and clever fingers. From these sort of nights great magic can be wrought. But Tulio is not the sort of human being to compose symphonies or birth new art forms. He is not even the kind who can merge two silly fads into one. He is a thief and con artist with ambitions far more base. A Muse can only do so much for him.

Miguel sighs and brushes long black hair from that long face. It was a nice break from the monotony.

For a moment Miguel considers staying the night, because somehow the thought of this bold, beautiful fool waking up alone is almost... what's the word? Sad.

But the time has long since come and gone for a graceful exit.

He leaves only rumpled sheets behind.

The Muse returns to their siblings smug and satisfied. Such bliss can last for weeks or years. Time is an iffy concept on this plane of existence.

It certainly does not seem very long to the Muse when the itch returns, stronger than ever.

* * *

When the Muse manifests, the city is the same as last time. There's much more than can be done here. Really. An enigmatic smile toward a seemingly inconsequential child, the humming of a few bars of music, spark the passion of an artist that will pioneer a music genre not yet born. Disco is still very much a thing, after all.

The Muse strides on. Black hair lightens to gold and pale eyes darken to green. This form is comfortable. This form might catch the eye of an old... con artist.

Instead there is another thief, fast-walking like she did not pickpocket that asshole eying her ass three buildings back.

She is still far too close to him when the man pauses, groping at empty pockets. "Hey!" he snaps. "You f-"

"Excuse me!" the Muse blusters, sidling between him and the thief. "Excuse me, how could you do this to me?"

"...What?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" The Muse clutches his chest with a melodrama that would make the theater Muses roll their eyes. "You stole my heart, the best years of my life, m-my _grandmother's ring!_ And then you just skip out in the dead of night?"

The thief blinks, before leaning angrily into his face. "How could I stay with a dog I caught in bed with my best friend?"

"It was a moment of weakness! Couldn't you at least leave a family heirloom?"

"'Family heirloom?' That diamond was glass, you cheapskate!"

Their argument escalates into tears, slaps, and groveling. The thief ramming her lips against the Muse's is her own invention. He certainly plays his part and returns it. In the end the Muse tenderly throws his arm over the thief, while she clutches at his chest. Tearfully they inform one very confused man they've promised to work things out. They stroll off hand in hand. The man doesn't even remember his wallet is still gone.

When they round the corner, the thief squeezes his hand before releasing it. "Hey, thanks for the save back there."

"Improv is a work of art too." The Muse shrugs. "It's just not usually my thing."

"Well, I'm glad you made an exception." The thief bites her lip, eyeing him as shamelessly as he does her. "You can call me Chel, by the way."

The Muse grins. "Miguel. I'm Miguel."

Chel brushes back her hair, revealing bare shoulders that are a masterpiece all on their own. "...You happen to be free right now, Miguel?"

He purrs.

They stumble into a cheap motel room paid for by courtesy of stolen dollars.

What follows is a night as memorable as the one from not too long ago.

When all is screamed and done, Miguel lies back to admire Chel's sleeping form. She is as striking as Tulio, round where he is lean, hard where he yields. She is also no artist. Her dreams are more grounded things, rooted in the consumption of wonder, not its creation. Miguel hopes she finds it.

He leaves only rumpled sheets behind.

The Muse returns to their siblings smug and satisfied.

For a short, short time.

The Muse needs more.

* * *

The Muse wanders down to earth without intending wonder. That's a secondary concern, only not really. It's not on the Muse's mind at all.

It's destiny, it's fate, to find Chel and Tulio murmuring conspiratorially together in at the bar, though the dance floor is alive. Of course they already know each other. They have so much in common.

They both gape at the sight of him, rubbing his eyes like they've seen a ghost, before they manage excited smiles and wave him over to their table.

...Both. Both is good.

Miguel grins and joins them.

After the most exhausting, satisfying night of his life, Miguel groans awake sometime around dawn. There is only a sliver of sunlight on the horizon. His bedmates snore obliviously on. He's pinned between them both. Miguel makes a halfhearted wriggle to escape. He feels heavier than he usually does, weighed down by a good night's tumble and the arms still slung over him. Besides, the morning air is chilly. He's comfy right where he is.

Green eyes blearily crack open hours later, as Chel and Tulio groan against their hangovers. Miguel sits up too, stretching languidly. His bedmates stare at him.

"What?" he mumbles.

"Nothing!" Tulio blurts out.

"He's surprised you didn't evaporate like the last time."

Miguel freezes. Then he realizes Chel is smirking. So he plasters on a smile too. "Pft. How preposterous."

Tulio pulls his frizz cloud back into a rough ponytail. "How'd you learn to make getaways that clean?"

The Muse deliberates his words. "I have eight sib... sisters and a very... protective dad. You learn things by necessity."

"I'll say," Chel snorts. "Gods have mercy on your mother." Miguel chokes back a laugh as she rises to her feet, a bed sheet wrapped around her naked form. "So, breakfast?"

"Yes!" Tulio coughs, before casually amending, "Er, yeah. I could eat."

Two sets of eyes turn to Miguel. He agrees. It's not like he's in that big a rush to get home. That plane of existence lacks strict linear time anyway.

Coffee is black and bitter. He pulls a face, but he's a guest in Chel's home. To not be rude he dumps in cream and sugar. When Tulio's eyebrows climb into his forehead, Miguel knows it's time to stop shoveling sugar in. He takes another sip of his coffee. It's so delicious he downs it all. Chel and Tulio glance at each other and don't offer him another. Oh well. Orange juice is sweet too, and tangy.

Miguel inhales his eggs. He vibrates in his seat. "W-Wow. T-Time's never moved so _fast_ before!"

"...Uh huh." For good measure, Chel pours the last of the pot into her own mug.

Tulio and Miguel scramble to help clean up. Miguel's job is wiping dishes Tulio snatches from him before he can drop them. Miguel frowns down at his jittery hands. Maybe he has spent too long down here. He wants to stay and chat, but he just can't sit still.

Chel and Tulio start deliberating over a long goodbye neither wants to end. Miguel hurries things along by kissing them both and buzzing for the door.

"W-Wait." Miguel's hand freezes on the knob. "Do you guys want to... hang out again?"

Miguel rushes out his agreement before Chel can. Noon in the park on Sunday. He can do that. Once he checks up on what noon and Sunday are.

The caffeine rush wears off the moment the Muse abandons material form. Those does not stop the Muse from bouncing repeatedly down to earth, agonizing over clocks and calendars. Time the ethereal realm is more perplexing than usual, now that the Muse has a solid date to look forward to. The Muse fears getting lost in thought and letting centuries pass again. Popping down to earth reveals ten minutes have passed since the last visit.

The eight other Muses shake their heads in fond exasperation. This Muse has always been... eccentric. Even by their family's lax standards.

Brother. Their little brother. He's too eager and innocent to be ranked among the middle Muses anymore.

And stubborn. Without flesh and mortal perceptions to weigh them down, their forms are fantastic, beautiful in their boundlessness. Except for the little brother that now always seems to stubborn with one particular face. It's a nice face, but it's just one.

 _"Terpsichore,"_ an older Muse sings in a dozen languages equivalent to the name. _"...Terpsichore?"_

Their little brother doesn't glance up, still somehow managing to pace an anxious rut through a formless landscape.

The Muse sighs and adjusts pitch. _**"Miguel."**_

"Hm?" Their brother looks up, voice reverberating at only a small fraction of its pull pitch. "Yes, what is it?"

The Muse struggles for the concept. 'Restraint' is a lecture rarely given among their family. _"Don't you think this is all getting a little... out of hand?"_

"What?" Their brother laughs. "This will only be my third time with them. We've had long term assignments before."

_"Are your little humans poised to birth a new music genre, invent a new family of instruments? You've had all they have to give."_

He haughtily sticks out his chin. "I'll be the judge of that, thank you."

The Muse sighs the gusty sighs of a thousand melodramatic tragedians. _"You know, even Dad's gonna catch on eventually."_

"Please," scoffs their brother. "You worry too much!"

Except the Muse does not. Their brother's absences only become longer, more conspicuous, as his creative output drops sharply. He's barely putting the work in anymore. His siblings are increasingly concerned it's that he won't do his one job, but that he _can't._ Not like he used to. Their brother just can't enthrall universal audiences when he's so stubbornly... _Miguel._ It bleeds into his other forms. His darkest hair retains blond highlights. The most feminine faces defiantly sprout facial hair. Always, his eyes remain fixed on a single shade of green.

Their brother still sings. He still favors disco to an unhealthy degree. His melodies plunge into dark new depths and even more terrifying heights. They are peaks and valleys of emotions no Muse should ever no.

Of course even their father catches on. Their brother has inherited his utter lack of subtly.

The whole world trembles with his storm.

* * *

It does not take Chel long to suspect one of his partners is inhuman. Miguel is anything but subtle. He skips in and out of their lives in the beginning, attacks every new food offered to him like he's never had green vegetables before, impishly dances around their questions about his background. Every time he returns he clings to his partners, stares at them like they'll age into dust the moment he turns away.

Miguel never brings them home. They know he has somewhere to go. He waves them off, that his family has a penthouse apartment or that they live just down that street or the other. He never carries keys or a wallet. His nose wrinkles at coins and paper money. The first few times Tulio or Chel buy things, he stares at simple transactions as if they're using toenails as currency.

When their lives start to settle into a new normal, Miguel's lack of normal becomes even more obvious. Bathrooms are miraculous. Yes, ovens are hot. Tulio is not there to watch the pink burns melt away when Chel runs Miguel's fingers under cold water. He gawks at Tulio, who shave his stubble dutifully to maintain that proper layer of scruff. Miguel's beard remains uniform. Miguel adores music, so Chel and Tulio pool their savings and get him a guitar. His songs tend to reduce people into quivering wrecks or hysterical laughter, depending on his current mood.

Chel likes dancing and most especially watching Tulio cut loose. Long after their feet are lead, they have to drag Miguel off the floor. He has the inhuman energy to dance all the way home after.

Tulio is oblivious. At first. Sure, of all the theaters and museums Miguel drags them into, his favorite piece is a large classical landscape spray painted in an abandoned building. That's just Miguel being quirky. But even Tulio eventually notices Miguel always has a fresh change of clothes, though somehow it's all Tulio's things in their drawers. That the long, _long_ list of lovers Miguel absently mentions include such names like Amadeus, Anna Pavlova, and Sappho.

They're out walking together when a sad song drifting out from a bar makes Miguel stop dead in his tracks. Chel and Tulio rush to catch him as he buckles to his knees, sobbing hysterically. His utter confusions over the water leaking from his eyes only worsens the flow.

"I-It won't s-stop," Miguel sobs into Tulio's shoulder. "W-Why won't it..."

Chel rubs his back soothingly. Her eyes silently find Tulio's. They flicker down to a bright, brilliant man who has a history of vanishing on them. The first few times they hadn't expected to him to ever honor his promises for the next date.

"It's okay," she murmurs. "Sometimes we bottle these things up inside too long." She bites her lip. "There's still this one song that reminds me of my grandma and the last good night we had before she went into the hospital. Hearing it still does the same thing to me."

"Must have been a while since your last good cry, huh, partner?" Tulio prompts gently.

Miguel pauses in confusion, wiping at the first tears he's ever shed. "Y-Yes," he offers gamely. "I... I can't remember the last time I did."

Chel knows Tulio knows. He knows she knows. Miguel doesn't know they know. They pretend until their partner finds a bottom to his well. They stagger back home exhausted.

Miguel is still there the morning after. And the morning after that.

His periods of mysterious absence taper off. He joins them in cons or in gigs Tulio snags for his guitar. Miguel's meager earnings start being spent in consignment shops. Tulio's clothes learn to coexist with a brighter wardrobe. Their laundry load becomes heavier because now they're finally doing enough for three. Miguel's beard starts creeping behind its confines. He wrestles it back into submission with a razor, scissors, and swears not from this century. His shaving nicks scab over and fade away at a leisurely pace.

Tulio thinks Miguel is perfecting the fine details of his con. Chel knows it's the utter opposite.

Miguel grows hazier in his lies, not more refined. Cars just didn't exist when he was younger. He's never lost a tooth. He stops referring to his family as a vague hypothetical. He absently drops a name or two for his sisters. Maybe 'Clio' is normal enough by today's standards. 'Melpomene' sure as hell ain't.

They visit the library. Tulio gamely keeps Miguel occupied among the tapes and records. Chel makes a beeline for the mythology section.

A Muse. One of Chel's boys is a _Muse._

Rifling through that appendix, Chel supposes it could be worse. At least he isn't a historical asshole like Zeus or Apollo.

Mystery solved, Chel is content to let it lie. Tulio's mouth twists.

That night, when they're tangled up in bed, something creaks out of Tulio. It is not a slew of accusations against Miguel, but the story of his own childhood, a miserable life in and out of foster homes until he finally flew the coop. Chel had a family, still has some out in the countryside. She repays such trust with her darker truths, the grandpa who lost his leg and his life to snakebite when they could not reach the hospital in time, the same hospital did so little for her grandma before slamming them with the medical bills. They clutch together closer and drift in silence.

"Xanadu," Miguel mumbles into Tulio's chest.

"...What?"

"Xanadu. I'm from Xanadu." Their partner wearily lifts his head. "Olympus. El Dorado. They're all much the same place, in the end."

"Yeah." Chel lightly kisses his brow. "We figured."

"H-How could you..."

Tulio catches his lips in a kiss. "Please, Miguel. Where else could you be from?"

Miguel's face crumbles into joy and disbelief and something else entirely.

Oh.

_Oh._

Thunder roars, quivering their apartment windows. Miguel flinches back.

"I... I'm sorry."

A bolt of lighting sears across the sky, so bright Chel has to blink. Even before she blinks the spots from her eyes, she knows Miguel is gone. Their bed is woefully empty, the silence long and mournful. Tulio gapes in horror at thin air, plucking at sheets still warm with Miguel.

Chel rolls out of bed and stalks for her clothes.

"W-Where are you going?"

Chel aggressively shoves up her skirt. "To get our partner back from his idiot father."

Tulio scrambles for his own clothes. He rambles even as he changes. "I-Isn't Olympus a mountain in Greece? And Xanadu out in Asia? Where the hell do we even-"

Chel presses a finger to his lips. "They have a place right in town, Tulio. Miguel said so himself."

In there city Xanadu does not exist behind glass in an art museum or upon the stage of a concert hall. They catch a cab to an abandoned warehouse, where Miguel has dragged them time and time again. The giant landscape spray painted over its walls is more than a little tacky. There was love and passion in every spray. Chel knows this like she knows Miguel loves her and Tulio back. Why else would he get dragged back home like a naughty child?

Tulio pokes their flashlight at a solid brick wall. He raps his knuckles against it. The landscape is inanimate. "How do we get in?"

"Don't flinch," she declares.

Chel seizes Tulio by the hand. Step by step, they draw back for a running start. Together they charge for the mural.

And into the dizzying array of light beyond.

* * *

_Oh f-_

Tulio does not slam into a brick wall. Oh no. He'd almost prefer a broken nose to the eye bleed beyond. Xanadu (or whatever the hell it's called) is a paradise. All of them at once. Lush gardens and rolling white clouds and a golden city somehow squeeze themselves into the same places at once. Its smells blur beyond comprehension. There is no sound but a grating whisper in his ears, too many tales tied together at once.

He squeezes tight to Chel's hand. His other hand rests against their doorway home. The solid brick under his palm is their anchor in this chaos.

"Miguel!" they cry together, so loud the cacophony falls silent.

Thunder answers, dark clouds condensing from everywhere at once. They stand before a giant of a man with flashing eyes and a dark gray beard. Or else he is a colossal eagle with nimbus wings, a bull whose bellow is the thunder. They stand in the midst of a seething storm.

_**"LEAVE."** _

"We will," Tulio squeaks out. He clears his throat. "But not without Miguel."

_**"YOU HAVE TAINTED MY CHILD, MY-"** _

"Zeus," Chel breaks in firmly. "We've did our research. You're _really_ not one to talk."

_**"A GOOD FUCK IS WHAT NOT DOOMS MY CHILD."** _

_"Dad,"_ murmur eight Muses, soft strums of light against the churning dark. _"Chill out."_

The storm reels itself in. His voice drops to less head-splitting decibels. With the Muses lending themselves to balance out his guttural tones, his thoughts gain comprehension. _"Human emotions our beneath our kind. It makes base beings out of us. No child of mine will be laid low by something fickle as... love."_

Chel smiles sharply. "Love doesn't go away just because you're trying to ground a grown... being. One thousands of years old. And Miguel's feelings are very much reciprocated."

"Yeah," Tulio agrees at once. He throws out an arm. "It brought us here, didn't it? Something tells me it's not normal for people like us to just stumble into... this."

Zeus' sullen silence proves it is very much not.

"Give us the chance to talk to Miguel," Chel says. "If we hear from him he wants to stay, we'll respect his wishes. We don't owe you a damn thing."

A furious rumble trails off as Zeus finally counts eight Muses instead of nine. _"Muses, where is your youngest?"_

The Muses quiver in delight. _"Oh, Miguel? He went to tell Mom."_

Tulio has no idea what this means until another abstract concept storms her way onto the scene. He and Chel cringe against each other as memory slams into them - all days with each other and Miguel, lived again all at once. There is fear and wonder and aimless adventure. There is discovery and acceptance and days spent buried in each other. There is all the seeds of love.

Zeus and Mnemosyne argue beyond mortal comprehension. All Tulio picks up is flashing lightning, pounding headaches of too many alien memories squeezed into his head, and the faint murmurings of the Muses. Standing next to those boundless forms is one small and stubborn in his shape. Miguel weathers the light show with the embarrassment of anyone who's had a lover witness family drama. He even sheepishly waves at them. When Chel nudges Tulio, they both wave back.

After eternity or a heartbeat, an agreement is apparently reached.

Xanadu flares bright too see. Tulio wrenches his eyes shut before they're burned from their sockets.

He never lets go of Chel as something hits them like a sack of potatoes and they tumble out of the immaterial plane.

Tulio lands flat on his back, the air knocked out of him. His next breath is hard. Miguel flings his arms around them in a stranglehold. They cling to each other as they finally blink the spots from their eyes.

"W-What happened?"

Miguel smirks. "Mom won."

Before Tulio can smother him in kisses, Chel asks the obvious. "How long will she let you stay?"

Their partner taps his chin in thought. "Forever, I think." He waves his hand. "My family's concept of time isn't necessarily... the most linear. From a certain point of view we're already mar-"

They interrupt him by each reaching for a kiss at the same time. Miguel goes boneless against them, not minding in the slightest.

It is no coincidence the date of Miguel's return is the same day the first ever roller disco opens its doors. When their partner finally drags them inside, Chel and Tulio blink at the flashing lights, the people in tight and colorful clothes wheeling around each other in something even more dangerous than a dance floor.

"Well?" Miguel asks over the blaring music. "What do you think?'

Tulio takes in the colorful, indulgent chaos. "It's very... you, Miguel."

Chel beams. "By which he means it's perfect."

Miguel drags them onto the rink. Tulio winds up on his ass in five seconds flat.

...At least he can spend the night snugly squeezed between his partners for balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -insert disco song of your choice- 
> 
> In pondering more obscure letters (Q and X), two ideas came pretty quickly. This one shot was... surprisingly on brand for me. Maybe because I finally went full abstract on my mythological concepts. And 70s!Mythological!Miguel will always want disco in every way, shape, and form. Tulio's moves are for the dance floor, thank you very much. Not the skating rink. But he'll make an exception for two people ;)


	13. The (K)elpie and the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel plays his guitar next to the wrong pool one day. He's so cute that the kelpie there decides to keep him rather than just eat him.
> 
> Chel has something to say about that.
> 
> Or: how two idiots accidentally domesticate a man-eating, shape-shifting water horse into their third idiot.
> 
> Or: a fusion with the fairy tale The Kelpie and the Girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kelpie and the Girl mutated out of research for another fic. It's a variation of the earlier The Water Horse of Barra tale. Mostly because there's only so many concepts I want to use that start with 'K' :p

On a hot and humid day, a lone musician roves down a dusty road. Exhaustion eventually compels him to plop down in a shady spot by a pool. Shrugging off his guitar, he idly plucks his guitar to see if the words for his new melody will finally come. They do not.

Miguel doesn't pay attention to his surroundings. Why would he? He's wandered these roads for years and he knows this spot particularly well. There's still a dent in the grass from where he and a certain partner he used it last.

He is also working his way downstream from the river that feeds this particular pool.

The same river that has had a mysterious source of deaths and disappearances working its way _upstream._ Not that Miguel knows to worry. The stories that drifted up north to him are strange and fragmented; a scream in the night here, washed up entrails here. There might be a pattern here, but it's new to the folks of this land, not the usual spirit or water demon. If the danger is even supernatural at all.

At the sudden sound of splashing, Miguel's head whips up. His song dies on an aborted note.

A stallion stands at the edge of the pool, fetlock deep in the water. He is midnight black, a color so deep he shines deep blue in the sunlight. He elegantly built, his neck arched like a swan's and tail held high. He stands still as a statue.

He is the most magnificent beast Miguel has ever seen.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, you're _beautiful_."

The stallion nickers. He steps out of the water, surface scarcely rippling, and closes the gap between them. He lowers his head and nudges Miguel's hand. Of course the musician lifts a hand from his guitar to comb through that silken mane. That mane is sopping wet, dripping with reeds.

This certainly isn't a wild horse. He enjoys the attention too much. Besides, he's pristine but for the reeds tangled in his mane.

He even has a bridle, one that glimmers like silver.

Miguel gently tries to pluck a reed from the stallion's mane, and discovers he can't remove his hand. Thinking his fingers tangled, he murmurs soothingly to the horse, and tries to work them free. It's almost like they're glued.

Miguel catches the stallion's eye. He's never seen a horse with blue eyes before, a horse with... large, rectangular pupils, like a goat's.

The creature exhales into his face. It is not the warm, horsey smell Miguel knows well from a childhood of riding and an adulthood of sleeping in stables. This creature's breath rinks of dead fish and rotten meat.

Miguel clamps down on his scream. Chel's voice rings through his head, a lesson about not antagonizing predators.

"I'm sorry," he squeaks out. "You're not a horse at all, are you?"

"No," agrees the creature. "I'm not."

Miguel gulps at the sight of his teeth, sharp and stark white. Is... Is that part of a shirt stuck between its molars? "D-Do you mind me asking what you are?"

 _"Each-uisge."_ He haughtily flicks his tail. "Though since humans in your neck of the woods butcher that, you could call me a... kelpie."

"Sure," he blurts out.

An eternity passes. Miguel grins wide and frantic, still trying to tug his hand away. The kelpie solemnly regards him.

"You know, I _was_ gonna eat you, but I think I'll keep you."

"For... For forever?"

"Of course." The kelpie flashes his teeth. "What do you think I am, mortal?"

"A-And where would be keeping me exactly?"

The kelpie's eyes purposefully slide to the pool. Miguel stares at it. The reflection in that pool is not of a magnificent stallion. The kelpie's true form is something like a hellish hippocampus. The upper half resembles a horse with dark green skin, a seaweed mane, and fangs jutting from its maw. The lower half is only a powerful, serpentine tail with ragged fins.

Miguel almost points out humans don't live very long underwater. For once he bites his tongue before he can damn himself. Maybe kelpies collect drowned bodies like some people pin butterflies under glass.

Miguel weighs the usefulness of calling for help. The kelpie can drag him under before he can do much more than scream. His gaze darts to his guitar.

"Forever sounds nice. But do you mind if I finish composing my song first? The... The sound might not travel so well underwater."

Blue eyes stare into his soul. Sweat drips down Miguel's neck. He smiles tightly, though nothing can disguise the panic in his eyes or his pounding heart. After an eternity, the kelpie folds his legs and rests his head right in Miguel's lap.

The kelpie's form flows like water. Gone is the black stallion. Reclined in Miguel's lap is a man just as magnificent, lean and pale. Droplets glisten on his moist skin. Except for the silver necklace around his throat, he is utterly nude. His black hair is still matted with reeds and his pupils still unnervingly rectangular. He smirks leisurely up at Miguel with gleaming fangs, puffing a breath into his face. He still reeks of fish and dead, dank things.

"Sure your song can't wait?" he drawls. "You'd look lovely with reeds in your hair."

Miguel clamps down on an aroused purr. "No," he squeaks. "It can't."

_Calm down, Miguel, he's trying to **eat** you. And not even in the pleasant way!_

Unfortunately, the kelpie is still sexy. Stupid supernatural wiles.

Green eyes dart back to the water. No matter how handsome his glamor, the water's surface still reveals the kelpie's true, terrible form.

Miguel picks up his guitar, wedging it between his chest and his unfairly attractive problem. The kelpie retaliates by wrapping his arms around him. At least he's generous enough to release Miguel's hand so he can reach the strings properly.

Miguel plays like his life depends on it, because it _does._ He frantically strums out his nerves. Once his adrenaline is worked off he slows down, pretending to ponder over a softer, romantic melody. Bit by bit, he slows down, each rendition more lullaby than love song.

The day is still hot and humid. Away from his chilled pool, the kelpie starts to feel the afternoon lull too. His predatory stare slackens, eyes half-closing as he basks. Eventually his eyes drift shut. His breathing evens out.

Miguel wriggles, just a little bit. The kelpie's arms are iron around him.

He plays on.

* * *

It's late in the day when Chel guides her family's small herd of cows back home from pasture. Her dad blew out his back, _again,_ but someone still needs to look after the farm. Her big brother has the fields. The least she can do is keep up with the livestock. She takes the scenic way home, to water the cows by a pool with more privacy than the others nearby.

At the faint, distant sounds of a guitar, she grins. Of course her idiot is back in the area.

Not long after, the bored lowing of the cattle falls quiet. Chel turns back to the herd. The cows have all ground to a halt, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. She raises her crook nervously, searching the undergrowth for predators. Like a stick will protect her from a jaguar, or _worse._

The wind shifts. The guitar grows louder. The cows snort and toss their heads. Even the oldest, gentlest dairy cow looks ready to stampede. Chel soothes them as best she can. When the cows break for home, plowing through the bushes for the most direct route possible, she doesn't stop them.

She almost follows. Instead she sighs toward her idiot.

"Gods dammit, Miguel," she mutters.

He's either in trouble or he's going to be.

Chel ventures onward. The staff is slick in her sweaty hands.

She discovers Miguel seated by the pool, serenading a new and naked lover in his lap. Chel isn't the jealous type. She hangs back to enjoy the show.

Her neck prickles, because something is very, very wrong. Miguel is drenched with sweat, eyes wide and terrified. He pales even further when he sees her, shaking his head and jerking his shoulders. _Leave_ he mouths, over and over.

Until the man in his lap shifts. Miguel freezes, shutting his lips to hum along to his lullaby.

Only the thing in his lap isn't a man. He snores with his mouth wide open, revealing jagged fangs. The reflection in the pool is too terrible to contemplate.

Chel steals closer. Her arms tremble as she raises the staff high as she can, to swing just as hard. She'll only get one chance.

A gleam of silver makes her pause. She stares at that necklace just begging to be stolen. Her grandmother's spirit stories whirl through her head. Can she get this creature to attack her over Miguel by snatching it? Will he be powerless to snatch it back, so that she might trade Miguel's life for it? Or should she just brain the monster and hope it's not the immortal kind?

Gods help them.

Chel rips the necklace right from his throat. Inhuman blue eyes fly open. Rage contorts those handsome features before he-

-Turns into a horse. An ordinary horse. He blinks back at her, just as confused as they are.

Chel stuffs the necklace down her shirt. The water horse snorts at her. He neither tramples her or runs away. He stands still as a statue, blue eyes resigned.

"Chel!" Miguel shouts, tripping over his feet as he pushes himself between them. "Run! Run while you..." He gawks at the water horse. The spirit flicks an ear back at him. "W-What are you doing?"

"What were _you_ doing?" Chel retorts.

"Saving you!"

"...From the monster you were serenading?"

"Hey, I was playing for my life! I just sitting at the pool, minding my own business, when this stupid kelpie showed up to eat me! But then he said drag me underwater instead. So I tried distracting him, but then he turned into literal temptation and um..." Miguel side-eyes the spirit. "Excuse me, but shouldn't you be attacking us right now?"

Chel considers the wet, icy necklace against her heart. "I don't think he can."

The kelpie sighs an obvious surrender. Miguel blinks at him. "Really?" He pauses expectantly, then his brow furrows in concern. "Why aren't you talking? You talked before!" The kelpie rolls his eyes at him. Miguel gasps in horror. "Y-You can't? Because we stole your..."

In return Chel rolls her eyes at not one, but two, puppy dog pouts sent her way. "No, Miguel. Just no. He was gonna _eat_ you."

"Just drown me!" Miguel glances uncertainly at his would-be killer. "Er, were you really going to..." The kelpie's pointed silence says it all. "What are we going to do with him, Chel? We can't just..."

Chel fumbles at her person. From her side she unwraps a rope meant for leading wayward heifers home. The kelpie spares her a withering glare. He shivers as the lasso falls around his throat, but never shies away. When she tugs, he follows, meek as a lamb despite his fuming temperature. Miguel walks at the kelpie's other side, torn between awe and guilt.

She takes him to the wisest person she knows.

Her grandma stares long and hard at the spirit she brings home. The kelpie stares back.

"Definitely a man-eater," she rules.

"He's... He's just..." Miguel quails beneath Sija's stare. "It's just how he is."

"Jaguars and crocodiles eat people too," Sija retorts ruthlessly. "Doesn't mean we don't beat them off with sticks and fire." The staring match finally ends when the kelpie is the first to avert his eyes. "There's a difference between monsters and spirits; one is mortal enough to slay, the other must be bargained and warded away because we do not have the power otherwise. Your water horse is definitely the latter. Probably. He's either above death or too stupid to fear it." She ignores the furious snort sent her way.

Chel squints at the stallion. "Immortal means 'tireless' too, right?"

Her grandmother's eyes glint. "It does indeed."

An immortal horse to till the fields and drive the cattle. Perhaps the gods have helped them after all.

And yet...

"We can't _keep_ him, Grandma," she sighs.

"Oh, you can't!" Miguel blurts out. "He's still a person! Um... a man-eating, shape-shifting water spirit, but still..."

"Good gods, boy!" Sija snaps. "He's _immortal._ I'm not saddling my grandchildren and their grandchildren to enslaving a vengeful spirit all eternity. However, young man, you are also very close to my Chel. She would be most upset if some water horse carried you off. The least he owes us is a little manual labor to pay us back."

The kelpie whinnies indignantly at the words 'manual labor.' It makes Chel smile. "I'll consider that a fair trade if you do, Miguel. Considering all he must have done, and what he was gonna do to you, we could charge a lot worse."

Miguel chews his lap before throws his hands up. "Fine. If you think I'm worth the trouble."

Chel gives him a peck on the cheek. "You're worth it all and more." She blinks at the kelpie, who apparently can't speak without his necklace. "Did he ever happen to give you a name?"

"Kelpie," he murmurs. "He's called a kelpie."

"That's what he's called, not what he's _named,_ " Sija says in gentle sternness. "Names have power. Kelpies are man-eating spirits. Best give him a friendlier name, if only for the season."

"...Tulio," Miguel blurts out.

Chel grins at its utter normalcy. "His name is Tulio."

Tulio cocks his head in absolute bewilderment.

* * *

Though none outwardly question Sija's wisdom on this matter, no one else in the family except Chel herself believes having a bound spirit help them out will be a great idea. Her dad starts murmuring prayers more often and her mom leaving gifts on the household altar. Her grandpa takes to hammering iron horseshoes over every door frame. Tulio, with solid hooves that will never need a farrier, is more confused than repelled them. Chel's brother, most pessimistic of them all, refuses to leave any of his family alone with the 'murder horse.' Even Miguel.

Miguel has found a new muse. His newest songs involve flowery comparisons to graceful stallions and male sirens. At first Tulio basks in them like the smug bastard he is. The more songs he hears, the more embarrassed he becomes. The twentieth comparison to a god has him sticking his head in his hay or bolting to the opposite end of the pasture.

Miguel tries bribing him with apples. It turns out kelpies are not big apple fans.

Chel's burden is lessened immediately. Astride Tulio she can herd the slow, meandering dairy cows home in no time flat. Together they can run faster than the wind, dance over water. She can catch up to Miguel on the road - not that he travels much these days. Her and Tulio keep him close to home. How can he be a musician without his muses?

Tulio does not graze alongside the cattle. He leaps the fence to rip reeds and fish from the surrounding ponds. One night a terrible commotion breaks out in the paddock. Chel's family charges out into the night, excepting a jaguar attack _at best._ Their worst fear is that the kelpie has finally tired of playing nice.

They find the cows all unharmed. The herd has crowed curiously close to Tulio. The kelpie's bloodied head pops up. He munches his mouthful of meat, confused as to what all the fuss is about. In the torchlight the trampled pelt of a jaguar is visible beneath his hooves.

They don't have much of a predator problem after that.

One by one, her family come to appreciate their new helper too. Her dad no longer blows out his back in the fields when Tulio breezes his way through. Her mom can easily visit her two other sisters that have settled in villages far away. Her grandpa now has the best helper for all the stories he tells out in the village, a ferocious monster or a graceful spirit to aid the heroes. Even her brother is won over. The wealthy people suggest 'that fine stallion' as collateral to all the village's debts. They forget those debts real quick once Tulio flashes his teeth.

Even in the beginning, Tulio is never just a beast of burden. At first the family's respect comes from fear of turning him against them. It doesn't take long for those feelings to evolve.

On nice days, the family dines on the wooden table outside, because it's rude to let their... guests dine alone. Miguel squeezes in beside Chel. Tulio happily digs into piles of fish and roast meat beside them. Sija has thankfully convinced him of the merits of _cooked_ meals. With the wealth their farm is bringing in, they can afford it.

On that first rainy evening, Sija declares she is never dining out in a barn. The kelpie squeezes into their cottage instead.

When they grow bored, Chel and Miguel introduce human games to Tulio. He has a thing for cards and dice - even if his current lack of hands makes him demand Miguel hold them all. It's not like Miguel is good at either on his own. He has no poker face. The kelpie thinks he has an unreadable equine expression. His partners quickly devise his tells anyway.

Tulio's stall is never locked. There's no point to it, and he always wanders back for the work day. It is furnished with old blankets and all the haphazard gifts Chel and Miguel collect for him in their travels. Thanks to his swift hooves, there's plenty of ground to explore. A lantern burns against the darkness every night.

Tulio has excellent night vision. Miguel does not.

At first, the hayloft becomes the closest thing to home since he first ran away from his own family. He soon migrates to sleeping by Tulio's side, because the kelpie is a living pillow and source of warmth.

In turn, the family politely pretends Miguel spends every night out in the barn, and ignores Chel's suspiciously rumpled sheets. Until she too is too engrossed by one idiot musician and one idiot kelpie to pull away.

Seedlings sprout. Cows bare their calves. Barren fields flourish. Tulio first hauls the plow, then the reaper, and finally the wagon to bring the harvest out to market.

When the wagon is wheeled home the final time, Chel's dad releases the kelpie from his harness. He pats Tulio on the shoulder and thanks him for the best harvest their family has ever known. The kelpie bobs his head.

Miguel and Chel drift like ghosts to the pool that started it all. Tulio plods slowly behind them, head low and blue eyes very far away.

"Well," Miguel jokes weakly, "at least you won't try to eat us this time, right?"

Tulio snorts a laugh just as half-hearted, rolling his eyes.

Chel draws forth the necklace that has long rested close to her heart. It is warm from her body heat, long since dried. "I...I believe this belongs to you."

She slips it over his neck, flinching away at violating his personal space. A hand catches her own.

"I'm sorry," croaks that same handsome man from all those months before. "So, so sorry."

Miguel quirks a grin, easily threading his fingers through both of their hands. "Well, I'm not. How would we have met if you hadn't tried to eat me?"

Tulio gawks. Chel can't help but laugh hysterically. Miguel follows.

Their partner splutters indignantly. "Y-You're taking me _eating you_ awful li- _mph."_

Someone thinks to silence him with a kiss. After a dumbfounded moment he opens his mouth to let them in. They collapse by the pool as one.

Hours later, they lie in a blissful heap, without a stitch of clothing between them. Or silver necklace. Miguel and Chel scour the bushes for it. Tulio, hair mussed and utterly debauched, rouses from post-coital bliss enough to frown after them.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for your thing!" Chel answers, because gods be damned if she still doesn't know the proper term.

"...You mean my bridle?"

"Is that what is?" Miguel mumbles aloud, because now he's about to unironically dive into the pool that would have drowned him. "Because it only looked like one for... huh."

He gawks down at the water. After a moment, so does Chel.

All three reflections in that pool are human.

Their flabbergasted stares turn toward Tulio. Their partner awkwardly rubs his neck. "W-What? Mortality is the way any of... _this_ will end on a remotely happy note."

"D-Does that mean you're..."

He shrugs. "Eh. Close enough."

Two tattered pairs of clothing to split between three people. Chel gets to cling to her muddy shirt and skirt. Miguel holds his baggy shirt down to maintain his dignity best he can. Tulio holds up ill-fitting pants that keep sliding over his waist. She does not mind the view one bit, even when her family stares knowingly at them all, including her big brother.

"How nice you're all finally sleeping inside tonight," Sija announces in an iron voice, when she knows as well as any there's only so many beds to go around.

Everyone knows better than to protest.

The farm, tilled by fae magic, will always bloom greener than the surrounding fields. Their cows, who grazed beside such power, will bare robust calves and sweet milk. Predators still sniff kelpie on them and dare not hunt a herd so well-defended. Neither do human predators. No one ever quite believes Tulio to be utterly harmless, no matter how idiotically he smiles after his partners, or what face his reflection shows.

Every once in a while, the surrounding jungle will echo with the cries of a hunted jaguar.

They're still his favorite snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original story hits much the same beats; girl sings at pond, girl attracts murder horse, girl outwits murder horse, girl uses immortal murder horse to profit, murder horse so humbled he becomes human for her.
> 
> For once, our idiots don't all wind up entirely human by the end. Tulio's only MOSTLY normal ; ) Because for once this was a tale that demanded it. Someone slap me if I go down this route again, yeesh.


	14. (E)arth Girls Are Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered her fiancee cheating on her, Chel just wants a quiet night with a bottle of wine.
> 
> Then two intergalactic fugitives crash land in the swimming pool.
> 
> Or: a fusion with the 80s cheese fest called Earth Girls Are Easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TvTropes' summary of the movie: Alien looking for space porn crashes ship in pool of Valley Girl with boyfriend problems. Boyfriend continues to be a problem until she realizes she's in love with the captain of the alien ship. The film does freely admit that all of its characters are somewhere from "lovable ditz" to "dumbass".
> 
> ...Only the ex is way, WAY out of the picture :p
> 
> You might also know it as the movie with Jeff Goldblum as both a blue furry alien and the romantic lead. And Jim Carey and Damon Wayons are his wingmen. The 80s somehow made a movie even weirder than 'Muse inspires man to make roller disco.'

In some backwater corner of the galaxy, a small spaceship drifts without any purpose beyond laying low. Easy enough. The closest civilized planet is light years away. So are the galactic authorities seeking certain individuals wanted across multiple star systems.

After weeks of this, things between two normally stolid partners has gotten a bit... tense. There's only so many hours they can spend together. Lighthearted bickering has devolved into heated arguments over how the other screwed up hydrating out bland meals. They cope the best they can. One tallies out the days in hiding upon the wall of their ship and naps whenever he can. The other idly toys with the transmitter in hopes of getting one channel out here.

"Come on!" he curses, slamming a hand against the sparking transmitter. "Give me something, anything!"

He pushes just a bit too hard. In a burst of static, a hologram erupts out. The sound, violent and jarring, makes him skitter back. His partner tumbles out of bed with a startled squeal.

"What did you do?"

"Look!" he calls brightly back. "I found something!"

"You f..." His partner trails off in utter bewilderment. "W-What are they?"

They both tilt their heads and consider the blurry figures projected out into their ship. The ear-grating tempo they gyrate in time to must be what their planet calls music. The aliens themselves are the real wonder, scantily-clad and just familiar enough to rivet their eyes.

"Females," rules the first one. "They're so bald." He blinks at their glistening skin. "And shiny."

His partner's eyes watch something else entirely. "And bouncy."

Considering the quality of the broadcast, he checks its source. His brows rise in interest. "Huh. Type 4 civilization. Just barely space-faring." He grins hopefully. "And not in any intergalactic treaties yet."

His partner rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Because they're _pre-contact._ You really wanna add on to our bounty with a charge like that?"

"Not contact. Just... bring in the ship a teensy bit closer. To pick up more channels."

"Absolutely not! No bald aliens are worth... this.... temptation..." 

A male dances his way into the females. He is equally bald. Where the females of his species have round chests, his is flat and angular. Their eyes rivet to those sharp planes.

Both. Both is good.

He whimpers in longing, pawing at the feet of the closest dancers. His hands passes through them, distorting the hologram.

"No," his partner deadpans.

"Just look at them! An uncharted planet to explore, a fresh start, a species so like our own. This could be our destiny, our fate!"

"If I believed in fate I wouldn't be wanted on five planets for rigged slot machines!"

The signal weakens, devolving into static. His hearts drop. For lack of a better argument, he softens his eyes, and trembles his lip just so. His partner puffs up and tries to indignantly splutter his way through. His protests soon fall silent. He cannot resist the power of the face.

"Y-You f... Fine, _fine._ We're not getting anywhere close to the actual planet."

He purrs. "Get us close enough for good reception, and our imaginations can do the rest."

With a long-suffering sigh, his partner moves over to the controls, and calculates the coordinates for a hyper-jump. "I still have a bad feeling about this."

He laughs. "Please! What could possibly go wrong?"

Apparently a lot of things. This uncharted solar system doesn't have pre-set coordinates for the autopilot to latch onto. His partner's crappy calculations drop them out of hyper-space well past the outer asteroid belt. They slam right inside it to be pelted with asteroids. Their ship, conned off an unsuspecting smuggler, was never in the best shape to begin with. Warning sirens blare as they plummet toward a blue and green planet below.

His partner throttles the controls. _"If we survive this, I'm gonna kill you!"_

Holding on for dear life, he very much understands that sentiment.

* * *

Chel is engaged to a doctor, one from old money no less. They have a lovely home on a mountain overlooking the city with gorgeous views and an expansive swimming pool. It technically belongs to her fiance's parents, but they far prefer the mansion in the French Riviera. It's intended to be a wedding present to them.

Unfortunately, Chel's Cinderella story has fallen to pieces, because her fiance is a cheating bastard. She'd skipped out on that beautician's expo to surprise him with a wild night of passion. The sight of her sprawled out on the sofa in that slutty nurse costume had been a gift for him alone - not the slutty nurse he'd walked in with. Now she's all alone in a home that isn't even hers. He'll realize that eventually. She ran him out of a house she has no legal claim to.

These hours have given her a chance to furiously pack up her things and at least run up the phone bill with furious calls to her friends down in the city. When the time comes, she has three couches to crash on. But not yet. Like hell is she leaving a mansion until she's milked all she can from it.

There's no point in trying to kiss and make up, not even for a hefty divorce settlement. Chel's read the pre-nup. She'd be walking away with crap anyway.

Her spiteful eye considers all his expensive knickknacks, the heavy computer and the shrines to his soccer glory days. She almost, _almost_ feels like smashing his shelves of overpriced cologne, puncturing all those soccer balls, tossing his stupid certificates into the trash. He might be too spineless to press charges. Not his bitch of a mother. Some of those knickknacks are heirlooms. Like hell is Chel getting charged with theft or property damage over her bratty son.

When the last bag is tossed into her car, Chel stalks out to the poolside with a bottle of wine. The one that should've been saved for an anniversary.

She's barely into her first glass when the meteor falls out of the sky. Chel ducks for cover behind the chaise lounge. The titanic splash douses her anyway.

Hair plastered to her face, Chel peaks up from her hiding place, expecting to see a smoking rock or a crater or the pool used to be. The thing beneath the water, garish yellow and red, is no meteor. It even has windows, glowing against the night.

Chel's eyes slide to the wine bottle. She suspiciously sniffs its contents. Then she marches over to the pool and waits for her hallucination to clear up. The spaceship remains solid. When she chucks a rock at it, she expects to hear a splash and then a muffled thump as it hits the bottom. Instead there's a metallic clang as it bounces off the hull. A shadow moves before the windows.

Considering how pushed to her limit Chel already is, her fainting is perfectly understandable.

* * *

Upon first regaining consciousness, Chel first becomes aware to something warm and furry poking her cheek. She cracks her eyes open. Two bewildered faces blink down at her. Her eyes snap open. When she screams, they scream at inhumanly high pitches, and scurry back. She scrambles off a metal table. Without any decent objects nearby, she rushes for the relative safety of the wall. She stares. They stare back.

Chel has imagined aliens before, unthinkable things with oozing tentacles, or at the very least giant foreheads and big black eyes. The beings before her are somehow even stranger.

"...What?"

At first glance, they just look like two guys in fur suits. One is deep blue and the other canary yellow. Aside from metal helmets and what look to be metallic underwear, they're also wearing nothing at all. It's a sight so absurd she pinches herself to make sure she isn't dreaming.

And, God, she isn't.

"This isn't what this looks like, is it?"

"Is it?" they parrot in tones eerily like her own. "Zis zit?"

Incredulity swiftly turning into rage, she rises to her feet. "If this is supposed to be a prank show or something I swear I'm gonna..."

She trails guiltily off. The aliens(?) huddle against the opposite wall. They throw their arms up like she's the dangerous one. Chel bites her lips and considers her surroundings, bright metals and devices she has no words for. If she really is being set up right now, these producers really should have taken some money away from their amazing scenery to invest in some decent costumes.

Ah, to hell with it.

"Sorry," she murmurs, slowly easing down to their level. "This is my first time being abducted by a UFO and all." She can't help but smile as they whisper to each other in uneven, lilting tones. "I see it's your first time too."

Aliens. My God. She's making small talk with aliens.

The yellow one smiles brightly back, then rattles off a series of syllables that leaves her head spinning.

"...What?"

His sheepishly rubs his neck, then puts a hand to his chest. This time he slows down. "Meegelsolakveder."

"M-Miguel?" she tries.

He considers this. Then nods. "Miguel," he agrees, copying her inflection exactly.

Chel and Miguel glance to the blue alien. He drags a hand down his face. "Vatuleeosvamer."

"Can I call you Tulio?"

His sneers at the obvious butchering of his name. Miguel gives him puppy dog eyes and his expression crumbles into resignation. "Tulio," he grumbles.

She grins. "Nice to meet you, Miguel and Tulio! Call me Chel."

"Chel," they echo.

To be polite, she holds out a hand. Before she realizes Earth etiquette probably does not transcend planetary boundaries, Miguel gamely mimics her. She lightly shakes his hand, then lets go. His touch is soft and warm. Just as mystified, Miguel grabs Tulio's hand, and shakes it too. The blue alien blinks down at him, then shakes Chel's hand for good measure.

Introductions made, Chel glances out a window. She's torn between relief and disappointment. What awaits her is neither the vast darkness of space or the vibrant color of an alien planet, but rather the lit bottom of the pool.

"A-Are you guys stranded in my pool?"

She points out the window. Miguel nods sheepishly. Tulio's face puckers. An alien spaceship, stuck in a swimming pool.

"I'm sure you guys can fix it, right?" she tries brightly. "I can even get the water drained out so you can work on it better! I'll just... tip the pool guy a lot." Yeah. Maybe say the shooting of an amateur movie went a little nuts. These aliens certainly look like idiots in bad costumes. "You can hide out at my house until he's done. Then you guys can take off back to your planet."

At the dumb looks she gets in response, she mimes it out best she can. Their eyes light up in understanding.

Tulio leads them to an exit hatch. Once it hisses open, he draws back uncertainly. When Miguel tries to barrel forward, his partner sternly holds him back. Chel climbs out. She holds out her arms, breathes in to demonstrate a clean enough atmosphere, and shows no ambush is waiting.

Miguel clambers out after her. He sniffs the grass, then laughs and tumbles into it. He pops right back up to gape splash in the fountains surrounding the pool, to poke at a sundial, to noisily jangle the wind chimes dangling from the porch. Tulio eases his away from the ship like he might spontaneously combust away from it. Chel takes both their hands and leads them inside.

They all pause at a rumbling stomach. Tulio eyes the fish tank like a buffet table. Chel tugs him back and makes it clear seafood is not on the menu tonight. Miguel breaks away from them to pick up the phone. His eyes widen at the dial tone. He mashes buttons until the phone starts beeping angrily. He drops it and skitters back to their side.

Not trusting these idiots around open flames, or even a microwave, Chel wrenches open the pantry. Out come cereal boxes. And cold toaster pastries. They fixate on its shiny packaging. Tulio nearly bites into it before Chel shows the real prize lies inside. One tentative nibble later, they're tearing their way through the box.

It buys Chel enough time to call the pool guy and arrange for it to be drained the next morning. She returns to discover the Pop-Tarts devoured. Someone's ripped open the fridge. They're both downing raw eggs like candy. It's safe for them. Probably.

At least the rest of the house doesn't have stoves and sharp knives. Tulio fixates on the gold-painted trophies, the kitschy crystal ware. He appraises everything as if making a shopping list of worthless shiny things to burgle. Miguel discovers the toilet first. Flushing it mystifies him. Before he can flush the her ex's expensive new razor, she turns on the television, and trusts their toddler attention spans to lure them in. They're drawn like moths to the flame.

They plop down on the sofa. Tulio yelps as it near swallows him. Miguel bounces a bit, then hugs a pillow to his chest. They diligently repeat every last sound they hear, from whole conversations to that god awful cat food theme. Whenever their concentration seems to waver, Chel flips to a new channel. The concert has Miguel leap off the couch. He paws at the screen like he can steal the guitar from the musician's hands. He turns guileless green eyes her way.

"Sorry, Miguel," she laughs. "I don't have one. My shitty ex sure as hell doesn't either."

Miguel turns his pout upon his partner. Tulio rolls his eyes at him and drawls something in their language. Miguel says something right back. Then they bicker like an old married couple, rolling their eyes and gesticulating at the people on screen. Chel suspects their argument revolves around human baldness, and the utter lack of blue and yellow hair among their species. When a blond pops up in a commercial, Miguel triumphantly points to her.

Tulio's counterargument is to remove his helmet and haughtily shake out the mane beneath. Chel's jaw drops. His roots are black, or at least a deep blue-black. The further from the scalp, the brighter blue the hair becomes. Her fingers itch to run through it, to find what Miguel is hiding beneath his.

Miguel slumps in defeat. Tulio pats his back, then locks eyes with Chel. They don't need to share a language to both know setting two aliens loose on an unsuspecting populace.

Miguel continues to sulk. Tulio grows bored and starts flipping through the magazines on the coffee table.

His eyes are still studying glossy, half-dressed models when the razor commercial comes on. Miguel perks up. Chel frantically tries to switch away. Of course the batteries choose that moment to die.

As that actor shaves his stubble away, Miguel's eyes narrow speculatively. His partner is oblivious. Chel is not.

"No," she grinds out. Not even a hundred razors could do the job. He needs a zillion bottles of Nair.

The alien grins flippantly back. "Yes."

Chel is so stunned that she can't stop Miguel from leaping off the back of the sofa. He charges for the upstairs bathroom. She pounds after him. A bewildered Tulio follows. By the time she makes it to the bedroom, the furry bastard's locked the bathroom door on her. She pounds furiously on it.

"Open the door, Miguel!"

"Make me," he retorts, in the same bratty tone picked up from some little shit kid on TV.

"Hey, Chel," Tulio breaks in. "What's... right?"

"What's wrong is that your idiot partner locked himself in there with some very sharp objects and a very bad idea!"

Deep blue eyes widen. In a wavering tone, he calls out Miguel's full name. His partner defiantly answers in that same alien tongue. Tulio growls right back, their voices escalating into an argument. He joins Chel in throwing his weight against the door. They continue shouting alien curses at each other the whole time. Chel is pissed enough to try her hand at shouting some too. And teach Tulio some decent Earthling ones for good measure.

When they finally bust the door in, they pause in utter bewilderment. Miguel freezes too. The bathroom floor is a mess of yellow hair and water. Miguel's bent over the sink, one arm completely shaved and his chest slathered in shaving cream.

Tulio squeals at the scandal. Miguel brandishes the dull plastic razor like a weapon. The blue alien throws his hands into the air, as if the razor might suddenly shave him too. They hurl insults and accusations at each other.

Chel's gaze rivets to Miguel's bare arm, painstakingly shaven down to the fingers and palm. A few shaving nicks aside, he's unscathed. Even the irritated skin is swift settling into a new tone. A bit paler than normal in these parts, but still within the bounds of human skin tone.

She has no idea how many repairs the spaceship needs. She'll have to face the pool guy. Maybe even her ex. And she's taken in two brightly colored aliens under her roof. Best case scenario, they face imprisonment and scientific study. The worst case scenario is the government simply shooting them dead and taking their bodies for dissection.

Chel marches into the bathroom and swipes the razor from Miguel's hand. He flinches back, rubs his shaved arm, and recoils at the smoothness. He quietly shuffles to a corner. Tulio stalks after him.

Chel kneels for all the goods under the sink, paid for by a vain doctor with both far too much money to burn and a need to be prepared for every emergency. Another argument tapers off as she slams her ill-gained treasure onto the bathroom counter. A whole damn box of the best razors money can buy. Two new bottles of Nair. A bottle of black hair dye for a fiancee in denial about his early grays.

"Considering the alternatives, blending in for the time being might not be the worst idea."

Miguel perks up. Tulio's eyes narrow suspiciously. _"What_ alternatives?" 

"Dissection," Chel admits bluntly. "Imprisonment. Death."

Tulio grimaces. He does not yet concede defeat. His partner becomes a willing guinea pig. Tulio himself retreats to watch from the bedroom, more than little horrified by the sheer amount of yellow hair clinging to every tiled surface. Chel unleashes the Nair. And bites back expletives at what lies beneath the hair. Under striped yellow fur, there is a lean body, deceptively human in its musculature. Under the thick fur insulating his feet are ten toes. He has a _belly button_ for God's sake. Even those useless male nipples.

Chel's eyes stray down to that metallic underwear and what other surprise it might hide. Miguel splutters and chases her out from the bathroom.

"Y-You know, you don't have to be _that_ thor-" A high-pitched squeal from behind the door makes her wince. Tulio's eyes bulge in horror. "...Never mind."

She races to her fiancee's dresser and rips out his softest pair of pajama pants. She hesitantly knocks on the door. A hand blindly gropes out, snatches her tribute, and slams the door shut.

What follows is a quizzical silence as an alien puzzles out human pants. Then there's the sound of a metal helmet falling into the bathtub.

"Miguel, you really shouldn't try do your head on your own. There's... There's a lot of sensitive angles!" And major arteries in the neck.

Tulio sighs and goes to break down the door again. This time it opens on its own. His jaw drops. Miguel grins smugly back. Chel's knees turn to water at what the fur hid.

He still needs a steady hand to clean up his rushed handiwork, to trim his brows into neat shapes and sculpt the darker bit of hair left around his chin and mouth into an actual beard. He looks utterly human, without the hair and the metal adornments. At least superficially.

Miguel arches an expectant brow. "Chel, how does Miguel look?"

"Hot," she blurts out immediately. At his confusion, she instead amends, "Sexy. Very sexy."

His expression falters. "Is... Is that good?"

"Very, very good." She grins at them both. "Like how you look at the dancers on TV."

Miguel puffs out his chest. Tulio groans.

"You don't have to join him," Chel admits. "We can just have you hide away inside until your ship is fixed."

Tulio's chin juts out mulishly. He plops himself down on the side of the tub. Under the blue he's even paler than his partner, and lankier. He refuses to let scissors anywhere near his glorious mane of hair. Chel doesn't blame him. She doesn't skimp on the hair dye. His face is long, chin pronounced enough where she wishes she had left some stubble left over. Oh well.

Chel gets kicked out of the bathroom for the final part. Miguel's offer of help is met with one very heated blush no longer hidden under fur. Tulio slams the door shut.

Due to many hours spent on hair drama, it's early morning. Chel leaves Miguel to preen over his reflection in the bedroom mirror. The pool guy is outside and very, very confused. At least the ship's relatively tiny size and garish colors convince him it's a movie prop. Surely no real alien craft can be that intensely yellow.

It will take a full twenty-four hours for the pool to finish draining. At least a solid day babysitting aliens. A solid day with two handsome, eager visitors from another world. She's torn between horror and delight.

Chel returns upstairs to discover her guests ransacking her ex's closet. Tulio freezes, head caught in the neck of a shirt. Miguel, who's already dropped his pajama pants, proves their species very much compatible. Chel gapes. They stare warily back, then continue dressing. All right then.

Chel is very much content to sit back and enjoy the show. Then she realizes Miguel's pants are backward, and Tulio is now trying to shove his head through the sleeve. She rushes to help them. And also helps edit their clothing choices a little. That baggy red shirt doesn't need cargo pants. Tulio can wear his black vest over something that's not a glaring shade of neon. No. He also can't shove all that hair under his helmet again. She ties it back in a low ponytail instead.

When she's done, she's ready to rip off their clothes all over again. Instead she takes a deep breath and steps back. "Okay, we have a day until the pool is drained. And no one should know you're literally from out of this world. What's next?"

Miguel beams, rushing out onto the balcony. Below the city sprawls out enticingly. "Can we?"

"No," Tulio drawls. He firmly drags his partner back inside. "We need to lay together."

Chel chokes. "Lay low," she wheezes out. "You need to lay low here."

Tulio nods in agreement. Miguel droops. Then he unleashes his puppy dog pout. Without the fur it's a dozen times stronger. Chel's resolve crumbles. It's not like she _wants_ to hang around her ex's house with two irresistible aliens. The temptation of dragging into bed, then the shower, then the loveseat, is too strong.

"We can say you're tourists," she suggests.

Tulio arches a newly-dyed brow. "From Finixalith?"

"An Earth country." Her nose crinkles in thought. "That would explain away the cultural differences and the language barrier. Especially if you're from somewhere we don't usually get a lot of tourists from. Like... Like Finland!"

Miguel perks up. Then he diligently yodels just like the ski bunny from the travel commercial.

"No," his partner grinds out.

Miguel pouts. Tulio caves.

* * *

Chel's convertible is an old, crappy thing held together by faith and prayer. Tulio leaps for the shotgun seat. Miguel stops sulking in the backseat to clamber onto the hood of the car. It gives him a better vantage point to drink in the colorful streets and shopping malls. He grins like a child, wind ruffling through his hair and baggy shirt.

When they stop at a red light, a jeep fill of giggling blondes pulls up in the next lane. The girls ogle Miguel. Miguel ogles back. His aroused purr sends giggles through them. They wave him to hop on over. He very nearly does. Tulio snags his legs just in time. The girls take one look at him, and decide both is good. Tulio's scowl drops into a stupefied stare at their coy invitations.

The millisecond the light goes green, Chel slams on the gas.

To distract them from Earth's bouncier denizens her first stop is a pawn shop. Miguel squeals over the beat-up guitar in the window. Once it's in his hands, he tunes it into perfect pitch. His first melody is mimicked perfectly from the TV concert. The next song that explodes out of him is all his own. Chel's jaw drops. Tulio smiles wryly after him.

Tulio browses the shelves for a souvenir of his own. Somehow she is not surprised in the least that he fixates on an old pair of dice. He tosses them experimentally. And smirks when he discovers that they always land seven.

Outside the shop, Tulio marches down streets with a mind of his own. Chel is morbidly curious enough to follow. Miguel rolls along, turning heads with his sunny smile and master skills on the guitar. Tulio fixates on a seedy alley and drifts right in with the crowd. Apparently shady gambling is universal. Miguel falls right in beside him, luring in new betters and distracting from Tulio's unnatural lucky streak.

Chel watches the crowd like a hawk. As too many gamblers get suspicious, she wades her way in to drag the idiots off. Their winnings go straight to cold drinks at the nearest bar. It's been that sort of day.

Chel orders her visitors a weak drink to start off with, just in case the sharp tang of alcohol isn't their thing. They sip their margaritas, grin at the taste, and down them.

Miguel eagerly takes his glass back to reach the ice. His tongue, inhumanly long, deftly flicks an ice cube into his mouth. Chel is not the only patron to stare. Not a single person is horrified. Intrigued, yes. And far, far more. Their eyes glint with fantasies dirty as Chel's own. Men and women immediately start competing for the honor of inviting Miguel to dance.

Seething in jealousy, Tulio butts his way in. And gets dragged onto the dance floor too.

A crowd gathers around the dance floor. Tulio and Miguel not only catch on quickly to human dance styles, but throw in their own flourishes. Locals start gritting their teeth that these two foreign showoffs have not only stolen their attention, but the adoring eyes of their girls. In revenge, one drags Chel out onto the dance floor. The club is plunged into a dance battle.

It's a massacre. Tulio and Miguel launch a campaign of shock and awe. They leap over heads, spin in dizzying blurs, and smolder so much it's a miracle the air itself doesn't catch fire. One by one, their competition drops, breathless and humbled by a greater power. When they stick up their noses and march off with Chel, the dance floor is still faintly smoking from Tulio's final spin.

Chel takes them all home - or at least back to her ex's home. He's still thankfully too much of a coward to have come slinking back yet.

Outside the pool is still only partly drained. Tulio groans in dismay. "Now what?"

Miguel laughs, Spanish vastly improved by a day among native speakers. "Oh, you worry too much."

"I worry exactly the right amount. This... This is..."

Chel giggles, leans conspiratorially close. Her breath tickles their ears. "Miguel's right, Tulio. You worry too much."

They pause. Then Miguel purrs and leans suggestively close. Tulio's half-hearted protests promptly die out. She wonders how many species barriers they've jumped before.

"Our touch can make you... feel good," Tulio supplies. "If you want."

"Very, very good," his partner chimes in.

"Yeah," she laughs. "I could've..."

When Miguel's expert fingers massage into her shoulders, colors explode across her vision. Some have never been seen before by human eyes. His touch amplifies her zeal a thousandfold.

Chel soars with the experience. She mashes her lips against Tulio's, and lifts them into exaltation with her.

* * *

When Chel's ex musters up the courage to finally return home, the house is dark and deserted. All of her belongings are gone. So is all the water in the pool. His closet is ransacked. The blue and yellow hair littered all over the bathroom is a message somehow. It has to be connected to even the hair dye having gone missing. The ex ponders this. It's probably a grandiose message about how drained dry his cheating had left her, a last laugh about how much of a clown he is.

At the salon where Chel used to work, her coworkers raise a toast in her honor. Good on her for leaving that cheating bastard and finding not one, but _two,_ nice boys that treat her right. Post cards soon arrive from all over the world; Tokyo, Barcelona, New York City. At least one of them is loaded to let them all travel the world like that, without ever having to worry about things as boring as work.

Before they drop off the grid, Chel and her boys drop back in town for a few days. They speak fluent Spanish now, enough for Chel's friends to realize how charming and funny they can be. If often in a ditzy sort of way. Miguel _is_ blond and even Tulio is still... Scandinavian. Chel's friends hope they have a great time back home in Finland.

Light years away, galactic authorities are still searching for two infamous Finixalithans. Their faces are broadcast in every legitimate casino on one certain arm of the galaxy. Three hairless apes from a backwater are well below their radar.

In a homey bar on a planet's main spaceport, a guitar and a wry grin lure curious travelers in. His partner catcalls the gamblers, lowering their inhibitions and raising the stakes. Not unlike what Meegelsolakveder and Vatuleeosvamer are wanted in multiple star systems for.

One smuggler, well-traveled, narrows all eight of her eyes. "Aren't humans a Type 4 species?"

Miguel and Tulio freeze. Their partner laughs and tosses out her hair. "Sure. If you didn't get abducted because some morons couldn't distinguish sapient lifeforms from the local livestock."

The smuggler huffs. "Damned Grays. Thieving scourge of the galaxy."

Chel laughs. "Tell me about it."

The game goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the hilarity of this movie just comes from how the aliens are basically just humans in fur suits and metal underwear... minus their uncanny mimicking abilities, superhuman dance moves, long tongues, two hearts, and psychedelic 'love touch.'


	15. (F)ernGully: The Last Rainforest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulio hates the jungle. He's just out here to hide out as a logger. 
> 
> He definitely did not sign up for evil trees, fairies, or the beautiful idiot that accidentally shrank him down to their size.
> 
> Or: a fusion with FernGully: The Last Rainforest.

In the beginning, the forest went on forever. Tree spirits nurtured the harmony of all living things. Human beings lived beside them, their closest friends and complementary opposites. Fairies instill order. Humans were chaos incarnate, the wild unpredictably often necessary for life. They balanced each other as the sun does the moon.

Then, as sometimes happens, the balance shifted too abruptly to be easily corrected. Tzekel-Kan, spirit of blight, rose up from the bowels of the earth and rained down his poison. Nearly the whole forest was consumed. Entire species perished. Humans scattered in fear, never to return. They too were likely casualties of Tzekel-Kan. But the fairies did not flee, could not flee. Only together could every last survivor tap into the ancient forces and trap Tzekel-Kan inside an enchanted tree.

Where all other trees will one day wither and die, Tzekel-Kan's prison stands eternal. Not even a wildfire can burn through its impenetrable bark. It is the greatest magic ever worked by fairykind, save for their haven of FernGully.

Miguel, a full-grown fairy, has still yet to master the basics.

"Once more!"

His partner arches a concerned brow. "Are you sure? We've been trying all morning."

"Exactly! Thirty-ninth time's the charm!"

Chel smiles and tries to still the anxious flutter of her wings. After trying everything from vast as ancient trees to base as fungi, she plucks something even more basic from a fallen fruit. "Here's a seed. Small, but with limitless potential. All it needs a little push."

Miguel bites his lip in thought. His green eyes scan the surrounding jungle. He leads the way down to a freshly fallen tree, ground stable enough to support a seedling, and rot rich enough to nourish it for years after. The perfect seedbed. Miguel's taken every childhood lesson to heart. If only instinct can be taught.

Chel gently pushes the seed into his palm, and then down to the bark. "Help it grow." No transformation or elevation necessary. Just a little nudge.

Blond brows furrow in worried determination. Green magic sparks from Miguel's hands. Green vines uncoil from the seed like tentacles, creeping down to the forest floor. Then the vines jerk violently, snapping back into the seed. The whole tree trunk shakes precariously. Miguel flinches back. Chel instinctively steps in. Pink magic envelops the seed, coaxing out thinner, smaller vines just firm enough to bind into the rotted wood. It is a sturdy foundation for that plant to thrive years more.

"Nice one." Miguel's smile is genuine, if a little heartbroken. "As always."

She squeezes his hand. "You'll get it eventually. Everyone can tap into the well of life. You just have to find it within yourself."

Her friend blinks at her, wide and earnest, before the bravado perfected by years of bullying ramps up to the forefront. He smirks. "Do you think you can help me find it? I might need some... more hands on learning."

Don't be swayed by the sexiness, don't be swayed by the-

Miguel waggles his brows for good measure. Chel's resolve crumbles. But not entirely. She casually inspects her nails. "Depends if you can catch me first."

Chel flits off. Miguel purrs and follows. They streak by as pink and green orbs of light under the protective light of the canopy. Every fairy is forbidden from flying above it. Too many predators, nowhere to hide.

When Miguel catches up, he plants a kiss on her lips. She can barely nip at his ear before he grins and zips away. Chel smirks and chases him right back. Each round is always bound to be better than the last. After yet another disappointing morning, they both revel in the escape. They fly swiftly, boldly, and high enough for their wings to skim the canopy.

Chel realizes how dangerously far up they are. She stops herself in time. Her idiot rockets right up through the canopy.

"Miguel!" she calls.

Above, the other fairy skews his eyes against an undiluted sun. He hides behind a leaf, blinking spots out of his eyes. As his vision clears, he beholds the endless vault of the sky, and rolling hills of green that stretch on forever. Miguel gasps in awe. He flutters out from the leaf to behold his first unbroken view of the world.

His eye is drawn to the dark cloud on the horizon. This one does not drift serenely by, but seemingly billows up from a mountain.

"Chel!" he loudly whispers back down, like Chief Tanni can hear them so far out from FernGully. "Pst, Chel! You have to see this!"

She buzzes furiously up, never leaving the upper branches. "Get back down here!"

Miguel's eyes go wide and pleading. "Just for a second!"

Chel rolls her eyes. Eventually her own curiosity wins out over caution. "Is... Is that smoke?"

"L-Like from a fire?"

They are young fairies who know these concepts only theoretically. When not showered with rain, their forest is thick with humidity. Their elders were their age when the last true fire raged through these lands. The closest they've seen are the scorched branches sometimes left behind by freak lightning strikes.

"Maybe?" Chel squints doubtfully. "Fire is bright orange. But I only see the darkness."

Miguel's wings buzz in excitement. He vividly recalls the childhood stories told to them about their long-lost counterparts. "D-Do you think there might be humans out there? They're supposed to have _tamed_ fire. This could be our destiny, our fate."

She shakes her disbelief. "Humans are _extinct."_ She bites her lip. "We... We need to tell the chief about this."

"How are we supposed to tell him if we don't even know what it is?"

Chel tries and fails to find a rebuttal. Not that she tries very hard. Miguel's grin and the prospect of adventure are too much to resist. They flit back below the treeline, flying fast and certain for jungle far from home. Neither has ever ventured this far from FernGully.

As their stamina wears thin, they both lean against a tree to catch their breaths. A bitter wetness unlike any sap makes them wrench their hands away.

Their palms are red, red as the two jagged lines crossed into the bark. The tree itself is dead, like all others in the vicinity. All bear the same red marks, like the trees are bleeding.

They have little time to ponder this mystery before the giant tromps out of the undergrowth.

Miguel gapes. Unnatural size, this creature looks uncannily like a fairy. If fairies were freakishly large, draped in heavy clothing, and lacking any wings. All that aside, Miguel still drowns in the deep blue of those eyes.

His partner, with functioning self-preservation instincts and the sole reason a frog didn't snap him up years ago, drags him down into hiding.

* * *

Tulio hates the jungle. Hates, hates, _hates_ it. Stupid mud. Stupid mosquitoes. Stupid sticky air. He doesn't get paid anywhere near enough for this crap.

He is also a wanted criminal with a desperate need to lie low. No one's looking for him out in the middle of the gods forsaken jungle doing actual back-breaking labor. The authorities long believe he's fled to somewhere luxurious and expensive.

...On second thought, maybe he just should've tried the fleecing the pants off the tourists again.

"De Soto!" rumbles a voice from his walkie-talkie.

Tulio clamps down on a scream. His voice still squeaks out a tad too high. "Yes, sir?"

"Are you done with your quadrant? All the others have reported in."

He coughs and tries again, in a tone deeper than natural. "Almost done, sir."

From out in the jungle, Cortes commands on high from the monstrous logging machine known to his men only as the Leveler. Not that de Soto is Tulio's real last name. All the more reason for his boss to leave his body where no one will ever find him if he can't keep up with the quota.

Tulio scrambles through the woods, tripping over roots, and haphazardly marking every tree in range. Some are theoretically less valuable than others. Hell if he cares. Wood is wood.

In his wild dash, he stumbles into a clearing. At the center is the ugliest tree in the whole damn jungle. Its bark is black and rough as obsidian, its branches dead and bare. Its trunk is wide and warped, like it swallowed something that didn't agree with it. Tulio shivers. His eye suspiciously searches the undergrowth for jaguars. Deep down he knows the sound and smoke of the Leveler scared all sane predators off. Not that anything would be stupid to approach the...

Tree. It's a goddamned tree. Tulio is scared of many things. Trees are not one of them.

With an angry huff, he stomps forward, and marks the ugly thing for harvesting. "Take that, you stupid piece of wood."

He does _not_ fast-walk away from a tree. That's stupid. He certainly does not look back to realize the painted mark he left behind is bubbling like magma.

He's in too big a rush to notice the root in prime tripping location. Tulio promptly face-plants into the forest floor. In the distance, the Leveler rumbles into earshot. His long stream of expletives cuts off as he catches a strange sparkle out of the corner of his eye. It darts off into the undergrowth.

There are many stories from across the globe about how following mysterious lights into the woods is a terrible idea. Tulio doesn't know a single one of them. Curiosity drags him onward. He catches another glimpse of the lights, one vivid green and the other bright pink. His investigation turns into a chase.

By sheer chance, he manages to cup his palms around one. "Gotcha!"

Wings flutter frantically against his palms. Too late does Tulio realize he has not caught a magic mote of light, but some strange giant glowing bug. He imagines getting stuck by a new insect, his throat closing hundreds of miles away from the nearest hospital, and his employer not giving a damn. Slowly, fearfully, he opens his hands and prays to not get stung.

Upon realizing exactly what he holds, Tulio's fear promptly fizzles out.

"...What?"

The insect in his hands looks an awful lot like a tiny little man. He blinks back, just as bewildered.

Then the tiny man's face morphs into a horrified expression. Tulio blinks dumbly down at him, unaware that the Leveler is roaring up behind them, or the tree falling in their path.

 _"Look out!"_ screams a voice at the top of its lungs. Unfortunately for them both, his tiny cry is lost to the Leveler's thunder. So is the desperate spell that spells out of him. _"Bless your eyes with magic light, I give the gift of fairy size... SIGHT!"_

Too late. Brightness explodes across Tulio's vision. His world falls away in a spiral of green. He is just aware of strong arms catching him, an argument breaking out overhead, when he plunges into darkness.

* * *

As he regains consciousness, Tulio's head aches with something worse than his hardest hangover. He feels like a sweater tumbled far too long in the drier, one left to shrink down to the size of a socket. The two voices still bickering him don't help his headache. And sound nothing like the men he works with. So Tulio bites back his dramatic groan and tries his best to listen.

"...el, what did you _do?"_

"It was an accident! I was just trying to make him see the stupid tree!"

"H-How did you mess up that spell so bad?"

"I still saved his life, didn't I? I didn't screw that up!"

Tulio cracks his eyes for a glimpse of these people. They fly wide open of their own accord. At first, he fixates on their striking faces, and half-clothed bodies. Then he realizes their ears are long and pointed, the shimmery wings upon their backs. He chokes. The fairies stare down at him. The blond man squeaks, trying to lift off from the ground and instead only falling back on his ass. The woman brandishes a sharp, pointy stick like she knows damn well how to use it.

Tulio clears his throat. "Uh, hey."

The woman barely lowers her pointy stick. Her skirt and top are woven from pink and white flower petals. The blond perks right up. He's even more naked than she is. His lean torso is shamelessly bared, his modesty held only by the red flowers around his waist.

"Are you all right?" he murmurs, leaning down into Tulio's face in great concern.

He coughs, heat flooding to his cheeks, and leans back to regain some personal space. "I'm fine. What..." What sort of fever dream is this? Then again, considering how these people are dressed, it might be one of _those_ dreams after. Tulio decides to roll with it. "What's going on here?"

"The monster... it tried to eat you."

Tulio blinks back. "Monster?"

The blond beams. "My partner and I saved you."

With a deep breath, the woman eases down her stick, a wry smile tugging at her own lips. "Well, one of us nearly killed you on accident, and the other saved both your sorry butts."

Her partner pouts at her. Tulio laughs himself, some of his shock mellowed out by natural chemistry. "Thanks to you both, but what exactly was I saved from?"

The blond's smile crumbles. "From that monster in the forest. The one that ate the tree." He twists his hands, green eyes haunted. "It was terrible."

Tulio puzzles this out. "The... The Leveler?" Only then does he remember the whine of machinery, ancient wood giving way, the shadow bearing down upon him. He scrambles frantically to his feet. "Am-Am I dead?"

The blond puffs out his chest. "Nope. All thanks to us."

"Sure," the woman mutters.

Tulio slumps in relief, then jabs a triumphant finger their way. "Aha! Then I must be dreaming."

She smiles wryly, pushing his finger down. "Unfortunately not."

Tulio's grinning bravado falters somewhat. This is usually the part where lucid dreaming kicks in and he gets down to the good stuff. "Of course I'm not," he drawls. "And what are you two supposed to be, some kind of fairies?"

The woman smirks, placing a hand on one canted hip. Her wings buzz smugly. "What ever gave us away?"

The blond flights right into his face. "What about you? Are you really a human?"

Tulio frowns down at himself. Some of his dreams can take kinky turns. In this one he's still his usual self, right down to the clothes he last wore while awake. Funny how he can't remember making it back to camp. "Apparently so." He frowns as something else occurs to him. These fairies are barely shorter than himself. "Shouldn't you two be smaller?"

The blond winces. "Well, yes and no."

Tulio frowns up at the canopy. The trees are looming especially tall. Strung up in the branches are a spiderweb large enough to ensnare grown men. Then he frowns down at his feet. There's not on the forest floor, but a narrow branch. The forest floor looks to be miles below them. The woman's spear was actually a tiny twig, _should have_ been a tiny twig.

Tulio screams and tries to skitter away. He nearly falls to his death six feet below. The fairies barely catch him.

"What the hell happened?" he chokes out, clinging to them both. "I-I-I- _I'm three inches tall!"_

The blond laughs sheepishly. "Oh, I shrank you."

"You... You what?"

The blond claps his shoulder. "My first real act of magic. And it saved your life!"

His partner sighs. "It's not even what you intended to do."

The blond flits away. Even as he walks sideways and upside down over the leaves, his feet never give way. "Well, yes and no. It's not what the spell was really intended to do, but we'll get this fixed in no time."

Tulio's head spins. "You shrank me?"

The woman rolls her eyes. "Catch on quick, don't you?"

Tulio dizzily plops back onto his ass. The bark beneath him feels all to the real. He pinches himself good and hard. When that fails, he slaps himself. His cheek stings with a pain no dream can produce. As his mind flails for alternatives, the blond fairy races to his side. He catches his hand.

"Hey, it's okay. Really. Chel can get your back to your right size." He beams hopefully at his partner. "Can't you, Chel?"

Chel's face falls. "Um, no. No, I can't."

"W-What do you mean you can't? You just fixed my seed thing!"

"I just gave your magic a nudge in the right direction! This spell's already done. Also, that was a _seed._ You can't get more basic than that. This is..." She waves a helpless hand at Tulio. "He's infinitely more complex, a being we literally thought was extinct!"

Tulio takes a deep breath and turns to the blond. "This was your spell, right? Just undo it."

He winces. "Actually, I'm still sort of learning."

"...Learning?" At the fairy's meek nod, Tulio's fingers inch for his throat. Then he thinks better and just buries his head in his hands. "Great! I've been shrunk by an amateur!"

The blond hesitates. "I... I can certainly take a bash at it."

All Tulio wants is the nightmare to be over. He groans and throws out his arms. "Yes. Yes, please! Bash away!"

"What was done, now undo. Return you to the form that's true."

Promising enough. Tulio starts growing. Then his form starts to swell in inhuman shapes. The blond tries, again and again. Tulio veers from elephant to anteater to platypus without ever leaving miniature size behind.

Just when he thinks himself stuck as some misshapen monster, he snaps back into his original shape, tiny and quivering. Sweat sticks his clothes to him. His shoulder blades ache. Tulio shakily rubs them to ensure no unwanted appendages followed him back.

Chel bites her lip. "Maybe I should try."

"No!" Tulio bursts out. "No, no, no! No thank you. Don't... don't you people have experts?"

"Chief Tanni," the blond blurts out. "Or one of the elders. The really, really old ones that might still remember humans. I promise to take you straight to them."

"Yes! Yes to any of them." Tulio takes a deep, calming breath and brushes his hair back. He sticks out a polite hand. "I'm Tulio."

The blond gamely sticks his own hand in Tulio's face. "Call me Miguel."

With a wry grin, he joins their hands and shakes them. "Nice to meet you."

He offers a hand to Chel just to make formal introductions. She readily shakes it. Before Tulio can let go, she slowly rises into the air. He squeaks and clings tighter, both terrified and elated. She lifts up just far enough to tug at him. Then she sighs and drops down.

"I don't think we can carry you long distances. Not even together. Sorry."

Tuli sighs. Figures he can't even live a brand new fantasy of flying in the arms of a lean, shirtless fairy. "No offense taken. This just _really_ hasn't been my day."

At least he doesn't have to waste hours climbing down the tree. He's light enough to leap onto the cliff and drift down to the ground. It almost feels like how parachuting out of a plane must feel, the closest a human can come to true flight. He can't help but whoop on the way down. The wondrous fairies circle him.

As the adrenaline dies down, Tulio realizes he just left behind the relative safety of the tree for a forest floor crawling in predators that will happily snap him up. He walks in a random direction before the fairies point out the way. They're polite enough to walk at his level. For a time they walk in silence, one side ogling the other.

Of course Miguel is the first to break the quiet. He waxes poetic on their home, FernGully, and then jumps right to what he really wants. "I've got so many things I want to ask you. Like, why have humans returned to the forest? And what was the monster that tried to eat you?"

Tulio scoffs. "That wasn't a monster. That was a machine."

Chel side-eyes him. "And what's a machine?"

He stumbles. "Well... this one cuts down trees."

Miguel cocks his head. "Does it eat them?"

"...Not exactly."

"So it makes homes out of trees?"

Tulio considers the primary uses for lumber. "Yes and no."

Miguel's eyes widen anxiously. "H-How many trees does a machine that size eat?"

He averts his eyes and shrugs, honestly at a loss.

Chel watches him through narrowed eyes. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

He bristles. "That thing nearly killed me, didn't it?" Cortes had known he was in the area, had never bothered to check in. Tulio shivers, wondering why a man strict as his employer had so readily taken on a slacker like himself. "It... It never cared what was in its way. I might as well have been invisible."

Chel's expression gentles. Miguel chews his lip. "Could it come to FernGully?"

Already sick to his stomach, Tulio can offer only another helpless shrug. Instead the fairies debate it among themselves. They come to the conclusion the beast is trapped by the red marks in the trees. It can't go past them anymore then Tzekel-Kan can break free of his prison, whatever _that_ means. Tulio offers a queasy smile. So long as the crew continues in its original direction, the Leveler won't come this way. Probably.

Miguel brightens in relief. "You've seen fairy magic. Can you show us more like yours?"

Tulio's heart skips. He almost admits humans have no magic beyond smoke and mirrors. Some niggling sense of pride has him pat frantically at his pockets. He nearly takes out his loaded dice. No, not impressive enough. These fairies can fly and turn men into miniatures. He still has a matchbook on him, gleefully taken off another lumberjack in their illicit gambles. He conspiratorially leads them under the shade of a massive flower, where his trick will look more incredible.

Inside, he strikes a match. The fairies gasp. Tulio puffs out his chest.

"What is it?" Miguel whispers, as if too loud a voice will scare the light away.

"It's fire."

Chel leans a little closer. "So _that's_ fire."

She knows better than to touch it. Miguel promptly burns his fingers and flinches away.

"Careful!" Tulio cries, blowing out the match and dropping it. He clasps Miguel's hands before he can aggravate the burn further.

Under his touch, their hands glow with deep blue light. Tulio's eyes widen. Yet he doesn't wrench his grip away until the light dies down. Miguel flexes ten pristine fingers, beaming widely. The human stares in wide-eyed fascination, when Chel takes their hands to inspect the miracle for herself.

"Huh. Didn't know your magic could change color like that."

Chel blinks. "It can't."

An unspoken question lingers. Tulio blushes, wrenches his free of the flower, and marches on. His unlikely friends follow.

By the time night falls, the incident is far behind them, replaced by discussions over the fantasy scenery and their respective childhoods. They settle down for the night on glowing mushrooms that emerge from the trees. Tulio climbs them like a staircase to higher, safer ground. The fairies watch him curiously before alighting beside him. Breathless, Tulio against the tree trunk, and admires a forest that surely owes its magic to its fairies.

He whistles. "This place sure is something."

"What are the trees like where you live?" Chel asks.

"Not like this." Tulio shakes his head. "I live in a city." At their blank stares, he elaborates. "Buildings, traffic, roads, lights. Humans. Lots and lots of humans. Most humans live in cities. There's not many trees there."

Miguel splutters in horror. "How can you live without trees?"

He shrugs. "Can't miss what you've never really had a chance to know."

Chel squints. "Trees make the clouds, the rain, the air."

"Hey, we have those too!" Well, air's debatable. But they also have smog. And light pollution.

Miguel gestures hopelessly to their fantastic surroundings. "Don't your people miss talking to the forest?"

His first instinct is to burst out laughing. He clamps down hard on that callousness and truly ponders that question. His gut churns. "Can't say the people I grew up around ever knew how to do it." And were awful keen on silencing those that have never forgotten how to listen. "...W-What does it say to fairies?"

Chel and Miguel glance at each other. They simply put their fingers to their lips and motion for him to listen. So listen he does.

Rain patters softly on the leaves, dripping down to the earth below. Down there a stream gurgles with the rain shower. In the treetops, insects and nocturnal animals sing and call out to each other. A small mammal squeaks indignantly as it narrowly avoids death by owl. Beneath all that is a quiet whisper like the wind through the trees, only its deeper, reverberating down to Tulio's bones.

That's just exhaustion and wishful thinking on his part. Wide a wide yawn, he nestles down between the bodies of two warm partners, and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

In the morning, Tulio scrambles down from the tree with new purpose. He aims for the stream. Some quick folding turns a leaf into a waterproof boat. Miguel is mesmerized enough to join him. Chel bites her lip, grins, and squeezes her way onto his lap. Tulio swallows thickly and concentrates on paddling. He doesn't need to do much work. The current pulls them onward.

The further downstream they drift, the larger the trees, the more vibrant the flowers. Tulio knows they've reached FernGully when his jaw drops from the golden butterflies fluttering overhead, the fragrant beauty, a paradise beyond comprehension.

Also, it's where he gets mobbed by a thousand curious fairies. They wonder what happened to his wings, his ears, what body he has to bundle up so conservatively. Tulio flushes beat red and can't help but duck behind Miguel. Just a little.

Chel rolls her eyes at a wizened old fairy that can only be her grandmother. "He's not a fairy, grandma. Tulio's human."

The old woman sniffs disdainfully. "Somehow I thought they'd be bigger."

Miguel winces and forces out a laugh. "I, er, had a little accident. And sort of shrank him."

"'Sort of?' I was six feet tall!"

A few inches of that, actually. But maybe Tulio can walk away from this just a little better off than he was before.

Tulio graduates from being in a menagerie to being subject to an interrogation. The fairies want to know all about why humans have returned to the forest, all about the magic learned in their long absence, if this strange machine he was saved from might devour Tzekel-Kan's prison. In turn Miguel is grilled over his impulsive spell. Doesn't he realize the unintended consequences his magic might have?

An idea, brilliant and terrible, dawns. "Yes!" Tulio calls, stabbing a finger at Miguel. "This is all _your_ fault!"

The fairy folds like a wet blanket. "I'm sorry! So, so s-"

"Don't apologize! I'm three inches tall because of you!" He dramatically shakes a passerby by the shoulder. "Three inches tall!"

Chel gamely catches on. "You catch Miguel in your hands! You could have crushed the man I love!"

Miguel goes a little glassy-eyed. "Y-You love..." She bulges her eyes at him. "Oh," he blurts out, before he musters up all the melodrama in his tiny little body. "Well, love is a little strong for our partnership, don't you think?"

FernGully, from its fairies down to its largest tapirs, watch in horrified fascination as all three of them hurl increasingly outrageous insults and accusations at each other. Their one night in the jungle suddenly gains lurid undertones. There's slaps, a grandiose sword fight with twigs, and then theatrical crying. With bright smiles to the crowd that all three of them have decided to make up, they bow and make their grand escape. A smattering of applause follows them, because the forest has forgotten what the hell that was even about.

Their hands in hers, Chel guides them both down to a small pond underneath a tree's sprawling roots. Tulio gladly kicks off his socks and shoes. After a beat, he removes his vest and shirt too. It's just too damn hot.

Chel delicately steps over the pond's surface. With a wink she somersaults into the air and dives in. Miguel follows with a cannonball. Without wings of his own, Tulio backs up for a running start. When he leaps over the pond, he gives his best salsa spin... and smacks belly-first into the water. Ow.

The fairies tug him downward. Tulio grins and follows. In the water they're all equals. Matching them stroke for stroke, he can almost believe he's soaring beside them.

They swim down into a dark crevice and surface in an underwater cave. Tulio whistles. Inside are many small pools among glowing mushrooms. As Miguel dances his way across, the water lights up beneath him just as it does for Chel. Tulio watches in breathless awe. Some pools away, the fairies turn back, and motion for him to follow.

Tulio leaps off his mushroom cap, remembering too late men cannot walk on water. His feet lightly skim over the water as he stumbles from one pool into the next. Huh. Guess the water's shallower than he thought.

Their game is half tag and half dance. They skip and glide around each other, skimming shoulders and stealing kisses. When all three of them crash in a tangle of limbs above a mushroom cap, it is only half a accident.

What happens next involves a _lot_ of glowing and an extra dimension to consider. Tulio's world explodes into green, pink, and blue. He's floating for a good part of it.

In the end, they just lie together, a content pile of limbs and wings. His hair is extra mussed from dangling upside down. Tulio is content to bask in their warmth all eternity. He groans when Miguel rolls away.

"Well, I guess we better go and get you unshrunk."

Tulio groans into Chel's chest. "There's no hurry."

She only steals a final kiss and flutters away. "He did make you a promise."

He whines and paws after them both. The beautiful bastards float just out of reach. "Let it wait 'til tomorrow. Come back. Pretty please."

Miguel nearly crumbles. He only sighs and pulls back up his flower wrap. "Well, I need to tell Chief Tanni about you anyway. He deserves to hear about this from the fairy responsible."

Tulio sighs and pulls on his pants. He follows them back into the cold light of day. As he staggers out from the pond, he leans against a tree root for support.

And staggers back into the water. At first he thinks the fiery pain in his hand to be from a poisonous tree. Too late does he realize he's feeling the _tree's_ pain, the poison coursing through its roots. Horrified blue eyes watch as two dead leaves fall from its branches. He gags at the sudden stench on the water, and scrabbles out. A yellow pall now stains that crystal clear surface. Its oily stench clings to his skin.

Chel and Miguel flutter into the air to escape that poisoned ground. Their wings send tainted droplets everywhere.

"W-What is this?" Miguel whispers.

Tulio falls to his hands and knees. "I'm sorry," he croaks. "So, so sorry."

The truth wretches out of him, terrible as the filth the Leveler leeches into the soil. He tells them why he came to their forest, what humans these days really do to trees, and the horrible fate likely approaching their home. All the details explode out of him. Holding anything back feels like another betrayal.

Of all the facts to focus on, their horror over the evil tree somehow outweighs their anger in him.

* * *

Tzekel-Kan is no simple spirit of destruction. Nothing so mundane. The forest has a place for earthquakes, for mudslides, even wildfires. An inferno might burn its way through an old, weary grove so that new seedlings might sprout from its ashes and birth a new cycle. Tzekel-Kan is blight, _pollution._ He chokes the soil, poisons down the forest to the root so that nothing might ever grow again.

His appearance is ineffably tied to mankind's flight from the forest. Perhaps humanity created him or lured him out of some deep, primal pit. However he was initially created, fairies had sacrificed themselves by the countless to seal him away. The Leveler has unleashed him into a world where he might gorge himself upon the byproducts of billions.

Chief Tannabok will not run from this fate, no matter how Tulio begs, stammers over how one-sided this generation's battle shall be. His people have nowhere else to run. FernGully is their home, the heart of the forest. To lose it is to lose themselves.

Those animals not so strongly rooted to this grove scatter for higher ground. Its fairies instead call out to the trees. The miniature human among them listens with wide, watery eyes as the forest sings back. Roots rise up and twist into obstacles that might slow a ruthless machine down. Their largest tree sprouts wicked thorns and thickens three times, a living fortress to shelter the young and frail away from.

Their thickest wards are not enough. Not when the Leveler is billowing smoke shaped like a sneering, malevolent giant. Its eyes and maw are toxic green, the same shade as uranium waste. Inside the cabin, Cortes' eyes glow the same shade. There is black ichor dribbling from his nose and ears. His skin is sallow, his powerful frame withered. He's being eaten alive.

From his fortress, Chief Tannabok commands artillery of poisonous berries and thorny whips. The Leveler chews through it all.

Tulio stares up at the cab. He has a plan. A stupid, suicidal urge he calls a plan. Exactly two fairies are dumb enough to try it.

"You know," Miguel wheezes out, "you need a set of your own wings."

Tulio is too busy clinging to him for dear life to point out the impossibility of this. Chel soars on ahead. When Tzekel-Kan's caustic green eye turns their way, she hurls up a seed that sprouts into a thorny tentacle. As the spirit shrieks in pain, Chel flights after him, incessant as a horsefly.

Miguel gets him to the window. There is only the tiniest crack rolled down. The fairy plasters on a wide, terrified smile. "Well, here's your first flying lesson."

He hurls Tulio toward the crack. The human slides inside, smacking against the control panel. Cortes doesn't notice him. His eyes are rather fixated on the green orb of light that's joined Chel in buzzing circles around the spirit possessing both him and his Leveler.

Tulio skitters across buttons and levers. He throws his weight against the bright red emergency shutdown button. Even as the leviathan beneath him grinds to a halt, he's already dashing for the ignition key. A meaty hand smacks after him.

 _"You little gnat,"_ Tzekel-Kan snarls out from Cortes' vocal cords. _"Someone's already ripped the wings off of you."_

The last puffs of smoke from the Leveler wheeze out. Tzekel-Kan sucks frantically on the exhaust pipe, fading away without constant pollution to nourish him. The awful light leaves Cortes' eyes. He keels over, dead before he smashes against the console. Tulio barely clears him. For good measure, he rips the key from the ignition, and drops it to the floor.

Just when the day seems won, Tzekel-Kan's roar shakes the Leveler, its windshield splintering into a thousand fragments no larger than Tulio. His smoky, humanoid form dissipates. The machine's thick steel hull rips open like a rotten egg. Out slithers a colossal cat formed of dripping oil, its fangs rusted metal shards.

His next roar cuts off as a glowing green light flies into his maw. Tzekel-Kan chokes like he's just swallowed a gnat.

"Miguel!" Chel screams.

"No," Tulio moans in faint, creeping horror. "Oh, Miguel."

Before a horrid cry can tear itself from him, a green sprout pops up from the oily jaguar's head. Tzekel-Kan freezes in absolute bewilderment. With a rumbling snarl he wrenches it off. His furious claws then turn upon the same vines now stubbornly sprouting from his legs. It's nowhere near enough to slow him down.

"Come on!" Chel roars to the fairies. "Help it grow!"

They erupt from their tree, bright and vibrant as the aurora borealis. Tulio darts for the shattered windshield. Vines are slithering their way inside from the wire cavities, the broken windows, prying open the metal hull itself. He readily slides down one. Behind him, roots sprout from the Leveler's treads. Nourished by the soil, the tree taking shape only swallows the machine and Tzekel-Kan all the quicker.

At the spirit's reedy cry, Tulio gawks back. Tzekel-Kan has been swallowed by the tree. He just glimpses those toxic green eyes before the bark envelops them. Even with its captive sealed away, the tree grows a few moments away, sinking down roots no machine can ever unearth. The fairies look on in awe. Very few seem to realize their savior was swallowed up too.

"Miguel!" Tulio and Chel scream as one.

They reach the roots at the same time, just as a scarlet flower sprouts at its base. It blooms to reveal a familiar figure curled inside. Green eyes blearily blink open. 

Miguel can take just one clean breath of fresh air before he is crushed between two laughing, sobbing partners. They smoosh his cheeks and take turns showering him with kisses. With a wide grin, Miguel dizzily concludes this means the cat creep is gone for good.

With Tzekel-Kan sealed away, Tulio returns to the pond. His walkie-talk, shrunk beside him, is still abandoned on the bank. He turns it on. From the Leveler's channel, there's only static. Base camp is far away, but Miguel flies him high enough onto a branch to get a signal.

One by one, loggers from the scattered quadrants are checking in and returning to base. They breathlessly discuss freak earthquakes and acid rain. Realizing their shitty employer dead, they also freely bitch at Cortes' shitty treatment of them and this shitty illegal job. See if they all don't go blabbing to the press and the government now. Let's see how Cortes' even shittier employers appreciate the deluge of lawsuits and international outrage they're about to get for this.

Tulio fiddles with the walkie-talkie. He debates checking in. Just when he maybe works up the courage to do so, the signal cuts off.

Chel stares long and hard at him. "Why didn't you let your friends know you're still alive?"

He snorts. "They can know that when I'm no longer three inches tall." He hesitates, before adding, "Besides, I've only known all of these men for a few weeks. I just got in to get out."

Miguel squeezes his hand. "Well, I've only known you a day, and I'm proud to practically call you a partner-in-training."

Tulio splutters. "B-But I-"

Chel shushes him. "Truth doesn't always win friends, but it certainly influences people."

"And I-"

"Yes," Miguel butts in. "And then you threw yourself into a horrible machine to turn it off."

 _"Oh, come on!_ I really-"

Someone shuts him up with a kiss. Tulio's efforts at pointing out his own selfish idiocy are distracted by a very different flood of emotions.

After being debauched a second time that day, his partners sheepishly fly off to collect his bits of clothing. They've wind up scattered all over the forest floor. Fully dressed, he is gently dropped off at the base of Tzekel-Kan's new prison. Fairies cluster in to thank him, to say goodbye, and let them know he has a good heart underneath all his human idiocy. Tulio awkwardly accepts their compliments. Finally Chief Tannabok clears the area. The human is about to undergo one hell of a growth spurt.

Miguel exhales shakily. "Well, good luck out there."

"Yeah," Tulio creaks out. "Same to you."

The fairy gamely holds his hand. Tulio goes to shake it. He's dragged in for a proper goodbye kiss. Then it's Chel's turn.

Tulio smiles wanly at her. "Is it your turn to reverse the spell?"

She pinches his cheek one last time. "Best leave it to the fairy brave enough to fly down Tzekel-Kan's throat."

Reluctantly, even they retreat beside the other fairies. Tulio's heart aches at the gap already between them.

Miguel waves his hands. His voice no longer shakes uncertainly, but is weighed down by somberness. "What was done, now undo. Return you to the form that's true."

Brightness erupts across Tulio's vision. This time his surroundings swirl green, pink, and blue before he collapses into familiar darkness.

* * *

As he regains consciousness, Tulio's head aches slightly less than the fire in his shoulder blades. He no longer feels like a shrunken sweater, but the fork stuck into the electrical socket. This time the angry voice overhead belongs to Chel's grandma. Tulio once more bites back his groan and listens in sinking dread.

Chel's grandma rips Miguel a new one over his shitty spellwork, first for his badly worded blessing and then the even more ill-defined counter he'd used to try reversing it.

"Young man, you've been warned time and time again magic has unintended consequences in such complex workings. What else did you expect in badly paraphrasing your true intentions?" 

"Grandma, he was just-"

"You're just as responsible here, young lady," Chel's grandma cuts in. "The chaos of the shrinkage is understandable. Not helping Miguel better phrase out the reversal is most certainly not." A stern, purposeful pause. "And then, to top all that off, you got this poor young man _up close and intimate_ with primal magic."

Miguel's weakly splutters out a protest before giving up. Chel knows better than to deny.

Tulio wrenches open his eyes. He's face-down in a leafy hammock, still very much three inches tall. Not as terrifying a prospect as it was the day before. He groans, tries rolling over onto his back, and only crumples his wings beneath him.

...Wait.

Tulio sits up ramrod straight. He tugs experimentally at one of the gossamer wings emerging from his shoulder blade. The burst of pain proves it very much not a dream. He shrills out a scream. In a burst of blue magic, he instinctively rockets out of bed, and smacks his forehead against the roof of the hollow. Miguel rushes to catch him. They crash in a tangled heap.

Tulio claps his hands over his ears. They're longer than they used to be, end in tapered points. He bites back a stream of curse words so foul Chel's grandma might just turn him into a tree for it.

"Miguel," he grits out. "What did. You. _Do?"_

The fairy coughs. "Sorry about that. Um, apparently shrinking you down to our size and involving you in all this magic might have... maybe twisted magic's conception of your true form?"

Chel sighs, gingerly laying a hand on his shoulder. "After we let you rest, we can let a real master try restoring your _human_ form. It might work. Maybe." She pauses. "We're kind of each other's polar opposites. How this even happened in the first place is... a cosmic misunderstanding."

"An aberration," her grandma mutters.

"A happy accident," Miguel primly corrects. Then he freezes guiltily. "Um...."

Tulio rubs his temples. Back home he's a wanted criminal who was working in illegal logging under a paper thin alias. Given the investigation the company's about to be under, his false identity is going to crumble real quick. He's an escapee from the foster system who leaves behind only bad blood, astronomic debt, and three arrest warrants.

Now he's three inches tall. His only duties are to help maintain balance in the forest, to help things grow and die. He has wings. And magic. And, most importantly of all, two glorious disasters apparently interested in giving true partnership a try.

"No maps," he murmurs. "No plans. Only the trails we blaze."

Miguel smiles weakly. "I don't even know what a map is."

Chel winks. "Neither do I."

Tulio taps his chin and pretends to think it over. His answer is obvious to all of them... if only in a trial period.

A trial basis that never seems to end. The one possession Tulio keeps from his old life are his weighted dice. Fairies keep no currency. That does not stop flower petals and shiny pebbles from becoming tokens among fairies of all age ranges. His partners fill their hollow with their spoils... at least until their fellow gamblers get canny enough to make him use the dice they carved out from dead bits of bark. Oops.

When not flying or gambling or dancing, their days are spent in the great barren fields left by the Leveler. Slowly, painstakingly, new waves of green colonize that broken ground.

On the opposite side of the ruined jungle, humans plant seedlings in that new national preserve, and trap Tzekal-Kan a little firmer in his prison.

One day, their peoples might once more close the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movie our idiot teenage human inexplicably starts showing magic of his own and the ability to understand trees after getting shrunk down. The fairies all but say all he needs are the wings. With foreshadowing like that, and such badly worded spells, how could I NOT have the last spell that should have resulted in their bittersweet separation go wonderfully wrong :D


	16. (D)aybreakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world long ruled by vampires, the human race is on the verge of extinction. Before the clock runs out, vampire scientists work to perfect a blood substitute. Until then surviving humans are hunted ruthlessly to make up for the supply shortage.
> 
> Tulio doesn't care about those greater struggles. These nights he and Miguel have difficulty with basic survival. They're two insignificant bloodsuckers with the bad luck to run into a human fugitive.
> 
> Chel never forgets the two brave idiots that once saved her life. She never expects to see them again. Or that they carry the key to something better than survival - a cure.
> 
> Or: a fusion with Daybreakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in a Halloween mood, okay?
> 
> Daybreakers touches on dark themes, considering it deals with the commodification of the entire human release and what happens to a society of vampires when there's no longer enough blood to meet all levels of demand... and those vampires devolve into mindless bat creatures if not fed enough.
> 
> That said, still a happy ending here. More so than the actual movie.

Tulio has never believed in fate. If he did he wouldn't rely on loaded dice.

For near the last decade, he has certainly believed in _something._ The whole world has. No normal plague allows a body to keep walking after their heart stops. Sick people don't lose their reflections in mirrors or spontaneously combust in sunlight. The planet's population are overwhelmingly vampires. Tulio is one of them.

He's long since adapted to the stillness in his chest and relying on close circuit cameras to fret over his appearance. Upon turning, his instinctive blood thirst erased his squeamishness for gore. Tulio counts his blessings. He ekes out enough blood to get by. He's not perpetually stuck as a child. He's not still human.

So long as he has his partner by his side, he can endure eternity. They'll never age another day.

Some days are more stressful than others.

"Dammit, Miguel, I knew we should have turned left back there!"

"The map says it's just up ahead!"

"It's a crappy map!"

Not like they can afford anything better. This car is a pre-vampire shit heap they won off an unwitting sucker. The minutes on their crappy little burner phones are saved for actual emergencies.

"Well, excuse me," Miguel huffs. "I'm just the navigator!"

"Exactly!"

"And _you're_ the driver. You could have taken that turn if you felt it was best."

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Being a crappy navigator on purpose doesn't mean I'm just gonna give up and let you drive."

"But-"

"No buts," he grinds out. "I'm not pulling over. We're wasting enough moonlight as it is."

Miguel's golden eyes flash. His lip skews in a pout. Tulio keeps his eyes on the road like a responsible driver. One of them knows not to plow into guard rails because they got absorbed into a conversation or a song on the radio. He stops for every sign and _signals_ his turns. No need to bring the cops down on them too.

Not every driver is so considerate. One plows right through a stop sign. Tulio can't swerve out of the way in time. They gouge the guard rail. The other car slams into it.

"A-Are you-"

Miguel immediately unbuckles and dashes out. "Don't worry!" he calls to the sole occupant wriggling out of the smoking cabin. "Help is-"

A crossbow bolt sails past his head. He skitters to a halt. Tulio screams his name. His next shriek withers as that weapon swings his way. Its stake is aimed right at his heart.

The woman that's nearly killed them twice stares right back, chest heaving. Sweat slathers her hair to her earth-warm skin. Tulio's breath hitches at her dark eyes, narrowed and ruthless. Then his gaze fixates on the red, jagged cut over her brow. Venom floods into his mouth.

 _"Oh,"_ Miguel breathes in awe. "Y-You're..."

All three of them stand still as statues. Two of them are frozen by fear. Despite nearly taking a stake to the heart, Miguel's eyes are wide and wondrous. He's spellbound. This if the first live human being they've seen in... five years, at least. In another life this woman might have been gorgeous. Awe takes a distant third to mortal terror and aching thirst.

Sirens wail in the distance, closer by the second. The woman's eyes widen.

Tulio nearly squeaks for her to just take take their damned car. His own personal experience with the law informs him it's not enough. She's lost too much of her lead. Her gaze darts back to them with the same grim mental calculations.

"Hide," Miguel blurts out. "You have to hide." He looks wildly around and settles on the one possible place to do so on this open, vulnerable road. "Get in our car!"

Self-preservation be damned. "Are you nuts?" Tulio splutters out loud. "She's-"

"In trouble!" Miguel hisses.

His fingers itch to strangle him. Instead Miguel fearlessly turns his back to the crossbow-wielding fugitive and opens the passenger door wide as it will go. Their backseat is shielded behind thick curtains that allows a passenger to safely stretch out during a daylight drive. Tulio remains paralyzed by fear. The woman might just stake them both for good measure. The alternative is one worse than death.

Sensing Tulio's weakness, the woman looks him right in the eye, and smiles sweetly. "Rat me out and I'll make you wish I put a stake through your hearts."

Harboring humans is treason of the highest sort. The government spares no pity for those vampires caught siphoning from the national blood supply. Their studies into studying blood deprivation can always use more guinea pigs.

Never lowering her weapon, she eases into the backseat and closes the curtains. Tulio snatches the keys from the ignition. Like hell he's letting her drive off. After a heartbeat, he snatches proof just as important.

Miguel eagerly flags down the cops. He gesticulates wildly at the smoking wreck and the crossbow bolts in the road. The younger cop is overwhelmed by his melodrama. The older vampire's eyes narrow intently.

"Did you get a good look at the driver?"

"W-Well, she..."

Tulio sweeps a weary arm over his shoulder. "It-It all happened so fast, officer." He doesn't even need to fake the scared tremble in his voice.

"I'm sure," says the older cop. "Did you see which way the driver went?"

Tulio authoritatively stabs a finger at the winding bridge ahead. "That way!"

Miguel nods along. "You heard him. That way. Right there."

"Thank you, gentlemen," answers the younger cop. "You two stay-"

"Might we see some identification before we leave?" breaks in his superior. "Just to say we... covered all our bases."

Miguel fumbles at his person. Before he glance uncertainly back at the front seat and draw attention to the car, Tulio smoothly hands both of their papers over. The senior cop immediately hones in on Tulio's. He's a legitimate vampire, registered before the ineffable boundary between predator and prey slammed shut. His turning date is _very_ close to the cutoff point. Miguel's is only a day earlier.

Both cops do a double-take at Miguel's full surname. They inspect his id for signs of forgery. Their wide eyes glance back to him.

Miguel haughtily draws his chin up. His lip shows a hint of fang. "I showed you which way that maniac went, didn't I? Do we need an even bigger fuss tonight?"

The younger officer gulps and surrenders their papers. "N-No, sir, we don't."

"Those ids are still valid," his superior adds. "For now. You two best good them updated before the deadline comes."

Tulio swallows thickly. "Will do, officers."

"Don't worry, sir, it's all just a bit more paperwork on your end. Now that we started breeding our stock the supply should start finally going up again." The young officer smiles brightly. "You two have a nice night now, and stay safe out there."

"Yeah," he croaks. "Same to you."

The cops drive off.

This year's calculations generously estimate the remaining human population at around ten percent of original numbers. Annual renewals require increased proof of identity for safety purposes. Can't have their blood supply all turn themselves and steal vampire identities to make the world starve faster. That's the only reason the government needs so much information about family history, and employment history, and incomes. Really.

Tulio sincerely doubts Miguel's family will bail their prodigal son out again. Their attempt at reconciliation ended pretty quickly once they made sure he couldn't be detained with the other human holdouts. Even their company is hemorrhaging investors these days.

The human woman scrambles out of their car. She grins. "Thanks for the save."

Miguel returns it. "No problem."

"Yeah," Tulio drawls. "We should do this again sometime."

Miguel slaps his shoulder. The woman giggles. If still physically possible, they'd be blushing red as fire trucks right now.

"Do you, er, need a lift?" his partner offers gallantly.

Tulio pinches the bridge of his nose. Yes, Miguel, let's become bigger accomplices than they already are. And confine themselves in a small car with leaving, breathing temptation. Their diet is almost entirely pig blood. Animals are no substitute for the real deal.

Her good humor falters. "No, I'm good." She backs up a few steps, toward an open field and the darkness beyond. "Be seeing you two around sometime."

Tulio snorts. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Miguel!" They both side-eye him. He coughs and sheepishly rubs his neck. "My name is Miguel. Just... Just so you know."

A long moment of silence. "Chel," she murmurs. "Call me Chel."

Tulio's scathing reply to Miguel's overwhelming naivety crumbles. If the human being can be genuine toward such sappiness, then he certainly can. "Tulio," he offers.

Their gazes linger. Chel's eyes are dark, her cut just starting to scab over. Once her curves would have made them trip over themselves like hapless idiots. Now their golden eyes linger at her neck. Miguel self-consciously purses his lips over his fangs. Tulio swallows back another sharp mouthful of venom. Even gorging on pig blood never fully slakes the urge.

"Some other time, some other place?" he calls.

Chel smiles wistfully back. "Maybe in another life."

She slips into the shadows, beyond where even vampire eyes can see. They watch her until the last possible moment.

Tulio sighs. "There but for the grace of God, huh?"

"Sure," Miguel rasps.

He clutches at his own left wrist and trembles with that old terror. Tulio tugs him into his icy embrace. Gently, he pries Miguel's hand away from his wrist, and up to brush Tulio's own neck.

The marks on Miguel's wrist are cold and succinct, delivered by a disciplined force.

Those on Tulio's neck were trustingly and lovingly given.

He guides his partner back to their car. Miguel bundles himself up in the back seat and yanks the curtains closed. Tulio sighs and pulls on the smelly, cumbersome nightmare euphemistically called a _sunscreen suit._ It's way too close to dawn. Modern cars have retractable windshield covers and camera systems for daytime driving. Tulio, not made out of money, settles for the next best alternative.

Suffocating in this hazmat suit is preferable to spontaneously combusting when the sun comes up.

But just barely.

* * *

_It's just a talk. They've promised it's just a talk. It's been years since they've seen each other. Of course they want to see him. They're his... his family, his flesh and blood (even if their blood is now still and dark.) Miguel's never heard his father come this close to begging before. Then again, the world's never come this close to ending._

_His mind is made up on his future. Tulio is with him. No matter how uncertain the coming days are, they'll face it together. They're partners. They're human, and they'll **stay** human. Forget his parents, forget his uncles, and his bossy older siblings. _

_His proud mother has been on the verge of tears. His father's voice had cracked on his final 'please.'_ _Miguel will hear them out. Maybe then they'll give him the benefit of actually listening to his argument._

_Their family is powerful. They have money and influence few others can. Can't they increase blood substitute funding now, maybe even start investing in an actual cure? Why not invest their infrastructure in pigs for the time being? Why not start openly fighting for human rights again? He's their **son,** the very proof human and vampire can still exist as equals, and look out for each other. _

_It's just a talk. They've **promised.**_

_"L-Let go! You said you wouldn't! Mom-"  
_

_"It was a white lie, sweetheart. A necessary evil. Please don't put up more of a fuss than you've already have."_

_"Dad! Dad, please-"_

_"Stop fighting me, Miguel."_

_"N-No. No! Please, no!"  
_

_"I'm saving your life!"_

_The bodyguard pins him down. It's his father that sinks his fangs into his wrist. No outsider can be trusted with a child of his._

_His father does not seek to feed. Beyond the burning agony of the bite flows ice-cold venom. His frantic heart only pumps the poison in all the faster._

Miguel's eyes snap open. This time he doesn't scream. Despite the nightmare his heart sits cold and dead in his chest. He can't even muster the tears to weep. While humans freely sweat and excrete body fluids everywhere, vampire bodies jealously hoard every excess drop of liquid. Especially when he's already so dry as it is.

Tulio snores obliviously on. It must be well past noon by now. In their old life even they'd both be up by now. Being nocturnal is no longer a personal choice.

For a long while Miguel watches his partner sleep. He'll always mourn Tulio's deep blue eyes, his roguish stubble that he made the mistake of shaving off ages ago, before they realized their hair would never grow again. Still the last decade has granted him the cold comfort of continuity. Tulio's clean-shaven face will never change. Miguel's grown to love deep golden irises. They've both learned how to kiss around the fangs and tease each other's bodies beyond placid rigidity.

They will never age. They'll live forever...

As long as the blood supply holds out.

Miguel combs his fingers through Tulio's thick black hair. He can't bring himself to actually touch his partner's elongated ear points anymore than he wants to feel his own. Those are not a feature of the vampire transformation, but rather the first stop of devolving into subsiders. Left unchecked, the thirst will sap away at their very sense of selves, and contort their bodies into the stuff of nightmares.

Each town they pass through is more desperate than the last. Prices are higher, blood rations tighter, and folks just a little bit more feral. The shady alleys that once let them hide so well from the law are now crawling with vicious bat creatures.

Tulio promises the city is worth the drive. There's richer people there, sheep still soft enough to be fleeced. They're not starving, really, just... fasting. Yeah.

Tight times call for tight budgets. Why waste money on an inn when this auto shop was right here? It has a garage to park away from the sun and a pullout couch that isn't the worst thing Miguel's ever slept on. There's still enough gas around to get them to the city twice over.

Miguel swallows thickly against the dryness of his throat. Vampire thirst is not the same as either human thirst or human hunger. It might be a monstrous hybrid of the two, if his own memories of human life weren't so distant and distorted to be relied upon. All that matters is the burning need for _blood._ Thick, rich, warm blood.

They still have a few packets of freeze dried pig blood left. It'll do. For now.

Miguel fumbles for his water bottle. Corn syrup and water aren't deadly to vampires, but close enough to blood to serve as a way to water it down while still making a belly feel as full. Addicts still seeking a caffeine fix take blood-enriched coffee the same way, or fortify their alcohol with actual nourishment.

Fully swirled in, the pig blood thickens the water into a pale red swill. Miguel grimaces. He gags on that thin, plastic flavor. He downs it in one go. His stomach heaves.

He scrambles out of the office and into the garage. Miguel groans, but keeps the awful mix down. The last thing he needs is to throw up and dehydrate himself further. Leaning wearily against their car, his eyes flicker to the blinds. Their coverage isn't perfect. A sliver of blue sky peaks in. His heart aches worse than his throat.

He definitely isn't getting anymore sleep today. Why not do something more productive than stew in bad dreams?

Miguel scribbles a quick note for Tulio's benefit that promises to be back by dusk. He wriggles into his sunscreen suit and dons his helmet. The best driving is always during broad daylight - no traffic, no cops, no partner to gripe about his lead foot.

Once the garage vanishes behind him, he spares his cellphone an anxious glance. It remains silent. A flat, open road unfurls before him. He grins and slams down on the gas pedal. Not even the thick lenses of his helmet fully impede his view - the clear sky retains a cyan tint, the muted sun still shines larger than any star.

His mind drifts. He's lightheaded from thirst and exhaustion. Tulio's always cursed his overactive imagination. But Miguel doesn't fantasize, he _remembers._ He was fifteen when he took his father's Maserati convertible for a joyride. He'd felt free with the sun on his back and the wind in his hair. Only meeting Tulio has made him feel freer. In flow in better memories; road trips under blue skies, dozing off in passenger seats with a warm sun beating down, trying not to coo at Tulio when he was the one napping and Miguel's eyes should've been on the road.

Gold eyes snap back to the windshield just as the road sharply turns. Miguel slams the brakes too late. He plows into the guardrail.

In his mania he's also forgotten to buckle his seat belt. He discovers this when the impact hurls him directly through the windshield. His helmet flies off. Miguel screams as the sun starts burning his bare face. His skin is smoking when he plummets into the river below.

Miguel sinks like a stone. His fears soon turn from boiling alive to drowning. The sunscreen suit might as well be lead. He fumbles for the zipper. A trail of bubbles escapes his mouth.

Miguel wriggles his narrow shoulders through the rubber suit. He squints blearily at the surface. Is he steaming, or is his vision just blurring from lack of air? He swims for that promising spot of darkness.

Please be a storm drain. Please, _please_ be a storm drain.

Miguel breaches in darkness. Gasping for breath, he clings to a stony walkway just above water level. Eventually he works up the strength to heave himself up. He sprawls out and waits for the pounding in his ears to subside.

For a moment everything is calm. Then he rolls over to wretch water and god awful pig blood back into the river. _Ugh._ At least he can breathe easier after that.

As his breathing settles back into normalcy, the pounding in his head eases. It never dies away. He frowns and sits up, squinting into the sun.

_The sun._

He freezes like a deer in headlights. The pounding in his head increases. He's not deep enough inside the drain. The afternoon sun slants right inside.

Miguel throws up a hand. It isn't even smoking. He wriggles his fingers, scattering water droplets. They shimmer in the warm afternoon light.

He's sopping wet. Is that the secret to not currently being on fire? He frowns down at the river.

Vampires don't have reflections. Mirrors show only their disembodied clothes. Religions have schismed over the existential implications. Miguel's long grown out of screaming at his lack of a face, even if he remains quietly unnerved.

There's a stranger in the water, wearing his clothes and hunched over just like he is. His face is disturbingly familiar.

Because that's _his_ face, one he now knows from old photographs and closed circuit cameras.

Miguel screams. He skitters back.

And stumbles out into direct sunlight. He flops onto his back, squinting upward. He's... He's forgotten how blue the sky is.

The pounding in his ears quiets down. Now that he's calm, he realizes it originates from his chest.

Miguel gropes at the left side of his chest. He paws at his neck and his wrists. Even below his father's fang marks, his pulse beats steadily onward.

A hysterical giggle escapes him. As he ramps up into full on euphoria, his gaze fixates on their car and its smashed windshield. His laughter tapers off.

Tulio is going to kill him. He...

Miguel swallows. He runs his fingers over the rounded ends of his ears and licks his dull, dull canines. Bleakly he remembers the first signs of turning into an outright monster, a thirst that had left him teetering between desperation and hallucination. His partner is no less thirsty. He's...

Oh.

Oh, no.

Miguel swims across the river. Before dragging himself up the riverbank, he guzzles water until his belly is full to burst. His throat finally stops aching. Miraculously the car is still running. He gingerly wipes glass off the front seat and climbs inside. He's able to pull away from the crash site that should have been his death.

Dizzily he peers up into the rear view mirror. Green eyes stare back. Above one brow is a bright red cut.

His gaze flickers down to the cellphone still resting in the console. He doesn't remember a single human phone number. Their owners have long since been turned, burned, or dragged off to the farms.

He still knows his parents' private numbers by heart. They've promised to never change them, just in case he ever comes to his senses. They saved him from this fate once before, dragging him kicking and screaming into the new world order. Why would they forsake him now?

Before his brain catches up, his fingers are already dialing.

* * *

Humanity is harder by the year. Chel's kind has gone from uncontested masters of the world to critically endangered. She's spent a decade creeping from base to base. Her people are barely in one place long enough to actually put down roots. And they need every plant they can grow. Starvation is nearly as big a threat now as vampires - subsiders have picked the forests clean, old food caches are long eaten up, and most fields left to grow wild. Those left are mostly used for livestock feed and closely watched to trap yet more desperate scavengers.

Years ago, there had been far more humans in hiding, actual networks for liberation and resistance. They'd had vampire allies and contacts. A few in the government had been still bold enough to demand equality and the restoration of full human rights. There had still been concerted research for a cure and to push all blood production into pigs and sheep.

Sympathetic politicians have been assassinated and executed. Those vampire contacts not exterminated by the new laws have turned out to be traps and traitors. Bloodsuckers cannot be trusted. Humans can depend only on their fellow humans, and every year there's more rounded up. Those left are hunted all the harder.

Chel's parents and grandparents are long dead. Her big brother might still be alive out there. He's better off dead. One day the blood bank might him of a little too much blood and he might finally find peace. Loss is simply a now permanent part of the human condition. Their numbers never grow. It's impossible to run away from a raided camp if heavily pregnant. Babies and fussy toddlers can't be trusted to remain quiet. Those few, cursed children are born into a world with no future other than to be drained until they die.

It's cold comfort knowing vampires won't long survive them. Millions will starve without a viable blood substitute. So many have already given into their thirst, twisting into mindless bat creatures.

There's nothing more human than struggling against the inevitable. Chel spits extinction in the face every day. She's dodged certain death a dozen times now. It's still secret two vampires saved her last time.

She still wonders why Miguel had immediately jumped to help her. From their crappy car, neither he or Tulio were rich enough to indulge in daily packets of human blood. She should've been delicious as the bounty on her head. In another life she might have tried swaying Tulio out of his terror, to make them both into stable contacts. The combined resistance was burned out years ago. She couldn't have dragged them both aboard a sinking ship.

Life goes on. Even Briceno-Martir's stocks are plunging. Every ration cuts down the human blood per serving, increases the number of starving vampires and drives more subsiders underground. Chel thinks about those two that saved her life and prays that they're doing okay for themselves. They don't deserve to lose their humanity to slow, torturous starvation.

The day that will change everything begins like any other. Chel's group sneaks out in broad daylight to smuggle medicines from a desolate pharmacy. They make it back without incident. The team out to scavenge parts from that abandoned auto shop are somewhat delayed. Two strangers had been hiding out there. Altivo's face is especially pinched when he returns.

Chel is cautious as she is optimistic. She and everyone else press in close to Chief Tanni.

"These men are extremely blessed to have been in the right place at the right time," he notes neutrally.

"God watches over children and fools," Altivo deadpans.

The whole base relaxes. Altivo normally communicates through expression and scathing silence. The fact these two men merit such a blunt answer means they are indeed harmless, lucky idiots.

Their two members are ushered in. They drag their feet as if being pushed into the lion's den. Everyone murmurs sympathetically. They might have gone a decade with only each other to depend upon. Their wide smiles only announce their utter terror.

Chel knows these two from somewhere. She squints at their faces. The men notice her staring. They gape right back.

_"Chel?"_

_"TULIO?"_

It's him. She's know that long chin anywhere, even it's no longer clean shaven. That thick black stubble is as impossible as the deep blue of his bulging eyes. Vampires are frozen in time. Their hair doesn't grow.

"H-How in the..."

Miguel smiles sheepishly, revealing blunt canines. The trimmed lines of his goatee are still visible beneath the golden fuzz now spreading over the rest of his lower face. His eyes are bright green. "I guess you were right about us meeting in another life."

All eyes fixate on them. Tulio flushes bright red. Chel stammers wordlessly. Miguel's grin never falters.

Chief Tanni lays a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Chel, is everything okay here?"

"Yes," she blurts out immediately. "Better than okay. Tulio and Miguel saved my life a year or so ago..." She winces. "Um, sorry for nearly staking you back there."

"Nonsense!" Miguel waves it off. "These days you can't be too careful."

His partner grimaces, then slumps in acknowledgement. "...Yeah. These days mortal terror rings a little... closer to home."

Uncaring of their bewildered audience, Chel closes the distance between them. She splays a disbelieving hand over Miguel's chest. Under his warm skin, his heart thumps in her shared excitement. He beams joyously back. Her brow furrows. Had she hallucinated them being vampires? Or were their disguises so strong they could fool even the undead into thinking them fellow bloodsuckers?

Tulio wordlessly raises her other hand to his neck. His shirt collar is turned up. She feels his pulse throbbing beneath the fabric, just as her fingers brush against two round puncture scars.

"How?" she chokes out.

"I'm not sure." He dips his head, one hand also groping at his hidden bite mark. Her fingers wind around his. "Hell, I'm not even sure how this all started to begin with." His other hand squeezes Miguel's. He gazes lovingly down, blue eyes locking with green, then both flickering back to dark brown. "But there's no denying the results."

Miguel pulls them both into a fierce hug. "Or that we can duplicate the results." He exchanges a pained grimace with Tulio. "Well, one more easily than the other."

Miya, Chief Tanni's wife, primly clears your throat. "Do you three need time to... reacquaint yourselves?"

Chel nearly retorts she's met these idiots twice in her life. Their gazes all flicker back to each other. Tulio flushes but doesn't flinch away. Miguel purrs suggestively. Her heart skips. Unlike last time, they don't trigger fight or flight. There's no denying the chemistry that was first hidden beneath primal terror, or that another urge just as deep wants to tackle them both to the floor.

"Some other time, some other place?" she murmurs.

Tulio groans and pulls away. "Right. Let's... Let's get this over with."

"We would all love to be enlightened," Chief Tanni adds.

"We have the cure!" Miguel blurts out immediately. A beat. "Er, _cures."_

"Cure," Tulio grinds. "What happened to you really, really shouldn't be attempted again."

Chief Tanni's eyes narrow. They've been burned before by snake oil salesmen. Only Chel's clear connection to these boys grants them the benefit of the doubt. "The cure to what?"

Tulio pales. Despite his terror, he steps away from them and squares his shoulders. He looks Chief Tanni in the eye when he rips down his shirt collar and bares his bite mark for everyone to see. What made them is undeniable.

A few weapons reflexively swing their way. Altivo is one of the people to scowl and step between them.

"They walked through broad daylight," he rumbles.

In a voice that barely wavers, Chief Tanni orders them all to the relative privacy of his office. The base pretends not to scramble for various eavesdropping points or to gossip among themselves. He falls heavily into his chair. Tulio wordlessly pulls further proof from his pocket and dumps it on his desk. Then he collapses on the sofa. Chel and Miguel huddle close to them.

Tannabok inspects the paperwork that once marked them legitimate citizens. Those photographs are undeniably the same men before him, albeit with golden eyes and vicious fangs. His brow draws down as he more closely reads the text. He stares long and hard at Miguel. Green eyes dart away.

"I'm listening," he croaks.

Tulio clears his throat. "For me, it started with a phone call."

* * *

Tulio blearily snorts awake to the awful, tinny ringing of his crappy burner phone. He's alone in this dumpy little office. His stomach sinks further at Miguel's number.

Right as he flips open the phone, his anger curdles into fear. Sunlight still shines through the blinds. He imagines a police officer picking up his partner's phone, standing beside the smoldered remnants of an idiot who pushed his luck too far by joyriding in broad daylight.

"M-Miguel?" he rasps through his dry, dry throat.

"Tulio," his partner blubbers. "Oh, Tulio, I'm... I'm sorry. So, so sorry. I..."

Tulio sags in relief at hearing Miguel's voice. "A-Are you all right?"

He can hear the idiot cringe over the phone. "...Well, yes and no."

His partner puzzles this through. Despite Miguel's hesitant tone, his voice is not muffled by the sunscreen helmet. He sounds _strong._ Strong as a vampire privileged enough to gorge on pure human blood until their thirst is truly gone. Tulio sharply glances at the few packets of pig blood they have left. Only one is gone.

"Were... Were you _drinking?"_

"I... might have guzzled half a river." A sheepish pause. "Um, how safe is that again?"

Tulio pinches the bridge of his nose and fights for calm. His rasp still tightens into a hiss. "What. Did. You. _Do?"_

"I... might have been a tad distracted. And crashed the car." The phone slips through Tulio's numb fingers. He scrambles to pick it up. Miguel blathers obliviously on. "-It's still running! Even though I also might have... broken the windshield. By being thrown through it. Don't worry, the river broke my fall!"

_"WHAT?"_

That harsh shriek barely sounds better than the bestial screeches of the subsiders. Tulio winces. Maybe he's too far down the slippery slope to be trusted any longer. He's tried too hard to ration what packets they had left.

Miguel never hangs up on him. He doesn't blurt out that he's taking the car and never coming back. His voice settles into unquestionable calm. "I'm on my way back now. Take the rest of the pig blood. Y-You... You need to hear this with a clear head."

"But..."

"I know it tastes terrible. I know you hate it as much as I do. I know I'll never need it again. So please don't let it go to waste."

_"YOU-"_

"Human." A ragged sigh. "I'm human, and on my way..."

Miguel's voice devolves into white noise. Tulio's head rages with denial and confusion and utter terror. By the time he finds his words, his partner has already hung up the phone. Tulio tries to call him. He wants to rage about how sick a joke this is, _it's not funny, please please run away never come back before I-_

Miguel's phone goes straight to voicemail. Tulio dials again. And again.

He hurls his phone and leaps across the sofa. His fangs tear into the freeze dried pig blood. He chokes it down dry. When his stomach roils, he pushes back with water. That awful slurry only wakes his appetite with a vengeance. It's just enough energy to remind him he needs _blood._ Hot, human blood staining his fangs and dripping down his throat.

Tulio throws the water bottle aside. His fingers wrench at his deformed ears. His fangs cut deep into his lower lip. He spits out that black, vile blood before it drips down his throat. Every starving vampire devolves into a subsider. Feeding on vampire blood only speeds up the process.

He stumbles into a corner. His hands sink from his ears to his throat, the mark.

 _Miguel's_ mark.

Tulio inhales, then exhales. His mind flits back to that fateful day - not the day Miguel's own family betrayed him, but the one where their relationship was renegotiated. If Tulio could no longer grow old beside his partner, then they'd have eternity together. Through better or worse. He'd trusted Miguel alone with the honor, new fangs and lack of experience be damned.

So hurt and so hateful of himself, that newborn hadn't killed his partner in his zeal for blood. Miguel has always kept his promises. He deserves nothing but the same faith, the same trustworthiness.

Miguel will not find death here; not his own, and not the ashes of a partner too terrified to trust himself.

Tulio grimaces down at his mess. He wipes up the water and splattered pig blood. He changes his clothes, ties back his hair, and makes himself presentable as he can without Miguel's expert eye to trust. At least his disembodied reflection lets him make sure his outfit is neat. There's nothing he can do about this goddamned ears. He can't remember the last time he fed well enough to keep them round.

This will work. It _has_ to work.

By the time the car pulls up, Tulio's talked himself up and down too many times to count. He sinks into the sofa and fights for calm. This might all still be a terrible misunderstanding. Maybe Miguel's just _found_ a human with nowhere else to go. Yeah.

...And maybe he found El Dorado and all its gold out there too.

The garage door grinds open, then close. A face appears in the office window. Tulio stops breathing.

Miguel smiles wistfully. No fangs. His face is no longer pale, but happily flushed. 

With blood. Thick, salty _blood._

Tulio's mouth floods with venom. His nails, their tips coming in hard and sharp, sink into the sofa mattress.

The door opens. Into the stale office air wafts the thick, heady scent of _prey._ Gold eyes fixate on Miguel's bare neck.

"B-Back," Tulio. chokes out. "Stay back."

Miguel freezes. Green eyes study him. _Green._ He's forgotten how _green_ Miguel's eyes are. The old pictures have never done him justice.

Blond brows draw down in determination. He frowns thoughtfully down at his own wrist. "I think we still need to clear your head a bit."

"Y-You _can't-"_

His partner smiles sharply. "You let me have a taste of yours. Time to return the favor." He blinks. "Um, maybe. Do you think cured vampire blood is still poisonous?"

"M-Miguel?" Green eyes blink guilelessly at him. Tulio bites back a snarl. "You smell _delicious_."

Miguel laughs. "Well, that isn't new."

With a promise to be right back, he slips back into the garage. Tulio's nostrils flare on fresh blood. He's drooling venom by the time Miguel reappears in the doorway. A fresh cloth is wrapped around his left wrist. He rolls a water bottle into the office. The vampire pounces. He wrenches off the cap. Gold eyes roll back in bliss. Red gushes down his throat.

His partner smirks. "Glad to know I also taste delicious."

Tulio sighs and licks crimson from his lips. "That's...."

The warm blood in his belly erupts into a wildfire. It flows into his veins like magma, scorches his lungs and his dead heart. He keels over with a strangled snarl.

_"TULIO!"_

Miguel rushes over to his side. That idiot. This is the agony of the subsider transformation. Tulio tries to beg for him to stay back. Only growls escape; then deep, shuddering gasps. Green eyes widen in horror, then wider still.

When the fire gutters out, Tulio lays limp and panting on the floor. He can only groan in protest when Miguel gently takes his head into his lap.

"I-Idiot," he wheezes. "I'm..."

Tulio's weak protests that he's a monster, a horrible bloodsucking monster, are all ignored by Miguel. His green eyes water with tears even as his smile glows brighter than the sun. The idiot strokes his hair. His fingers trail down Tulio's rounded ears, to his clean shaven throat, and come to rest above the strange little animal that's taken up residence in his rib cage.

Wait...

His gaze flickers from Miguel to a shiny hubcap resting on the floor. He's eye level with a stranger, long-faced and blue-eyed. Tulio bolts upright with a squeal.

A watery laugh escapes Miguel, who only hugs him tighter. "That's just your reflection, silly."

_"What?"_

Tulio's mouth falls open. Miguel eagerly slips his way inside. Their tongues rove over each other's curiously blunt teeth before they bolt melt into deeper warmth.

Hours later, they're dozing in post-coital bliss when a low growl startles them awake. They squint into the darkness with hammering hearts.

Miguel's stomach rumbles again. They giggle at their own paranoia.

"Hey, Tulio?"

Tulio drowsily scratches a chin already growing rough with new stubble. "Yeah, partner?"

"What are we supposed to eat now?"

Tulio opens and closes his mouth. They are no longer partner of the overwhelming world majority that depend exclusively on a liquid diet.

....Well, shit.

* * *

Briceno-Martir Pharmaceuticals is the nation's leading company in blood supply and distribution. They've helped transition in the new world order and done their damnedest to stabilize it. Some investors are taking losses in their female stock to play the long game in reproduction. They've funded and outfitted the army with the best gear possible for the location and acquisition of further humans. Their media blitz in subwalks and sun-proof development have talked up a stable, positive future.

Private speculators now place the remaining human population closer to five percent than ten. Carlos Martir should be thinking long-term. Instead he has to spend his days mollifying the idiots who want to pull their private stock from corporate distribution. Can't those fools see they'll only drive demand beyond sustainable limits? The people are already up in arms that most coffee chains have dropped from twenty percent human blood down to ten. These same consumers enjoyed _fifty percent_ just a few years ago.

There are no longer enough humans to meet demand. Soon they'll be a luxury commodity. Carlos has come to peace with this. Briceno-Martir's future rests in their patented blood substitute. Those companies that invested in pigs are now slaughtering their stock in stopgap measures to meet current demand.

Demand that has spiraled out of control. Mysterious disappearances among the lower class vampires, raids that have gone horribly wrong, _counter-raids on blood banks._

A resurgence in human resistance has actually helped stocks. Apparently there might be more than first predicted.

...In the short-term. Carlos sees only a critically endangered race that feels they have nothing left to lose.

His researchers are still months away from that damned substitute. And Dr. Delgado, the brightest of them, still hasn't checked in for _days._

The night that will change everything begins like how all others have gone lately; drinking blood-fortified wine in between mollifying investors and yelling at subordinates. He snarls when his personal phone goes off next? Which one of his parasite relatives is it this time?

"What?" he snaps into his phone.

"Hello to you too, dad."

Carlos sucks in a breath. "Miguel." He inhales again, and irons out the waver in his tone. "What is it this time?"

A father must be firm. Fathers don't worry over prodigal sons that still resent them for immortality. After all these years, he's started to worry...

No. His son's surfaced just in time, thank God. Probably to beg charity for that little _partner_ of his. Miguel will always be protected by his family name. His little parasite has never ranked beyond Category 4. With how fast things are crumbling in the society's seedy underbelly, that con artist must really be more monster than not by now.

But Miguel doesn't immediately start beginning for his partner's life. His tone remains unerringly bright. "What's the matter, dad? Can't your own son call to discuss the family business? Dr. Delgado says you're still _months_ away from the substitute."

He squeezes his phone in a death grip. "What have you done?"

"My sheer dumb luck just held out long enough for people brighter than me to make use of it. One day you'll really have to met Chel, dad. She's, well..." Miguel purrs. "Three heads are better than two in a partnership. She and Tulio have helped us steal so much of your _stock._ But inoculation was all her idea. Of course, we're all part of something bigger."

Carlos' mouth runs dry. All those rumors about how disastrously their most recent raids on human camps have gone gain chilling new depths. "Y-You're... You're partner with _human bioterrorists?"_

"It's a cure, dad. An honest to God cure. No more depending on blood, no more hiding from the sun." A heavy pause. "No more subsiders."

His naive, idiot child. "Miguel, son, I _know_ you're hungry. I know you're scared, and desperate. Please, come home. Those humans are feeding you _lies._ They're-"

"You can call me Patient Zero. I infected Tulio too. Our human condition is permanent." Miguel laughs, free and fierce. "Turns out cured vampire blood reverts and _prevents_ venom from turning us again. Needless to say, our numbers are growing. So many children ready to grow up. So many that only turned to save their own lives. So many Category Fours that don't feel like starving to death. Imagine what happens if you round up the wrong humans."

The phone nearly slips from his sweaty palm. Blood, seemingly harmless until consumed. Starving vampires leaping on unwitting carriers. Mass outbreaks of humanity. Mass casualties.

"Anarchy," he wheezes out. "Civil war. Do... Do you know how many will _die?"_

"How many hundreds of millions have perished from the outbreak?" Miguel retorts without mercy. "How many millions from starvation and suicide? How many human beings have died in your _farms?_ How many undesirables were you prepared to sacrifice a year from now?"

"T-Those are only contingencies. W-We never-"

"There's no more humans to hunt, dad. As of today our overwhelming majority is... inoculated. A quick bite, a day's rest, and some treated blood. That's all it takes. You'd be surprised how many friends we've been finding in high places."

"Not here," he growls. "Not now, not ever."

"Truth is like the sun, dad. You can't shut it out forever. The society you helped build was never going to last. With or without you, dawn is coming. This, _I promise_."

His phone smashes to the concrete floor his office. His son has already hung up.

Not an hour, the broadcasts begin. From radios, televisions, hijacked sites. Every censored message spawns a dozen more. Even licensed media 'leaks' those testimonials, impossible footage of cures and liberation. They're vultures feasting on the kill. They crawl out from corners, tenacious and ubiquitous as cockroaches. Humanity has always been like that. How many supporters do they have on the inside? Who can be trusted?

The real head of the operation must be that man they call Chief, who has guided human resistance through purge and betrayal. Their public faces are younger, more photogenic - a sympathetic con artist who survived on the underbelly of vampire society, the human woman who wears her bite mark as a badge of triumph... the prodigal son who carries a name every vampire knows. He's vowed to take the names of his partners once human marriages are legal again. Until then, he's the living antithesis of all Briceno-Martir stands for.

Dawn is coming. Dawn is inevitable.

Humans have never figured how to hold back the turning of the earth. Those who have long cowered away in darkness now turn up their faces, smile, and step hand in hand into the newborn light. The monsters in their shadows hiss and sink further back.

The sun shall find them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daybreakers gets a bit (by which I mean really) heavy-handed on its themes. It's rushed and undeveloped in areas because these really should have been expanded as a limited series... but it still provides a look at vampires that was novel for the time, and in the end reverses the horror by turning human rebels into vampire society's bogeymen.
> 
> Those that have watched the movie realize the human rebels get off the ground a bit earlier here. Miguel and Tulio, being self-sacrificing idiots, stumble into the secret of treated vampire blood almost immediately after discovering the right combination of water and spontaneous combustion can cure. Which means human rebels can weaponize it with a larger, more cohesive movement... and find many sympathetic vampires among a social class that otherwise would have been starved (or outright exterminated as fledgling subsiders) if the blood shortage had a year to grow more dire.


End file.
